I’m lost in numb daydreams, gazing at lush oak trees. Craving more, I squint through the leaves and branches. Inside, I spot a school, a wine bottle, an umbrella. I turn and study his eyes hiding in shadow, lips basking in sunlight. Memories rise within my fuzzy gaze. The boy who snatched kisses in third grade. The drunk teenager who escorted me to prom. The man who pledged love in gushing rain. I yearn for all of them in him. But I’m too late. He doesn’t see who I was, still am. He only sees the shape of my face.
Melanie Maggard is a Seattle-based writer who loves drabbles and dribbles and has been nominated for Best Small Fiction, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Find Melanie on Twitter @WriterMMaggard and on Instagram @writermmaggard.