1965-Pan Am
She never dared to grow her hair out slightly past her shoulders- wavy and black heat-rolled curls that had always remained wild like a hurricane in all kinds of weather. Her eyes, light brown and curious, predisposed you onto joining her onto her every endeavor. Nameless, she climbed aboard onto the plane, her raven curls becoming one with the cigarette smoke of her fellow colleagues.
She silently thanked God for a window seat, until she felt someone kick the leather cushioned padding. Oh, there's a child on this plane, she thought to herself, grimacing a bit.
"Sorry," the voice behind her murmured. She was surprised to discover that the actions belonged to man, rather than a six year old who fidgets too often.
"Oh, it's alright," she sheepishly smiled at him. He was handsome, with long dark hair that too laid on his head in waves, although they were slight. His eyes hid behind sunglasses.
The woman with the black hair and heart of wanderlust spent her eight hour flight facing the wrong way in her seat, gripping her seat cushions and resting her chin on the headrest and covering her mouth when she laughed too hard at the man with the sunglasses's stories.
Eventually, he took off his sunglasses, to reveal his own set of light brown eyes.
1966-Somewhere in London
The orchestra filled the air in the reception area in a chapel with a symphony, cheering off the pomp and circumstance with blissful champagne bubbles and promise of living for forever and a day. Rose petals scattered the wooden floor, often meeting its fate of getting stepped on by a heel.
The man with the sunglasses and the spectacular woman with the dark hair attended a wedding. However, it was not their own. In fact, they weren't even sitting together; they sat on opposite wings of the hall. She sat with hardly-known acquaintances and bit her tongue to avoid speaking to them. On the other hand, he wasn't with her. He was with her, his wife, his honey-blonde college sweetheart.
Initially, she was outraged that he was married; however, he had explained that it was a marriage out of obligation, not even remotely close to love. She resented him, and though her heart had been full, she knew how and when to cut the threads that bound their veins into one stream. He even said that he was going to divorce her soon so he could be happy with her.
But still, marriage is marriage. And he was set to tell his wife tonight.
He looked straight across the room to her and couldn't help but smile, a pure sensation that would make him go tender at the mere sight of her anxious face. He tilted his head the slightest to the exit, towards the small garden outside.
Once outside, they ran through Van Gogh's Starry Starry night hand in hand, securing any possibility of being spotted- a mod Bonnie and Clyde.
"I-I don't know if I can do this. It's not fair to me or her," her face was flushed.
"Please, please wait," he furrowed his brows and kept her hands safely in his. They were always cold, even during the summer. "You've got the entire world inside of you."
He got down on one knee, pulling a velvet box out from his pocket.
"Look at me, dear. Now I know we can't get married-not right now, maybe in the future. I just want you to know that I promise to always love you, and take care of you, and chase you wherever the hell you go because I know you hate being in one place," he looked at her desperately, kissing her fingers. "And with this ring, I promise to always be by your side."
He slid the ring onto her left ring finger, leaping up to kiss her feverishly. His ears felt hot. The spaces between their bodies quickly filled and suddenly, they were one, and then none. Wiping their tears away, they made sure to keep their distance when walking back to the reception. But not even a mere 25 paces could establish their distance.
She, the golden haired woman, understood that too.
2 and 2 becomes three, and a golden tide crashes onto a cascade of obsidian with its wave of wine.
And that cascade of obsidian runs once again, this time alone, and with a face splashed with 1960 Chianti.