Snapshot 56
Come into these arms again
and lay your body down...
All he wanted was a love story.
He knew there were hundreds, maybe thousands. But he always thought of theirs as something else. He could hear the songs playing when he looked at old photographs. He could hear the soundtrack of their lives when he remembered special moments, whether they were last evening or last year. He could see them sitting contentedly on the couch, watching and listening with pride, while one child played the piano and the other the violin. He could feel her eyes on the side of his face, as they looked up with a love he felt he didn't understand fully. Not then, not now.
He could see the children sitting and listening intently, with glee, as he told them stories about when he first met their mother. The heady madness of their youth, their impulsions, how her eyes took his breath away. How he would steal her away from her house, early in the mornings, and they would ride nowhere - in the sun, in the cold, in the rain. He could hear himself telling them the story they never tired of hearing, of the exact time he decided he was in love with her. He could hear the children laughing, see her blushing, and almost feel the indignant slap on the shoulder. Oh stop, she would say, and he would laugh and just move on to the next story.
And there were so many stories.
About crazy conversations in dingy coffee houses, about crazy friends and crazier trips, about obstacles and how they overcame those, about the time they used to go to rock concerts, and make out like teenagers, while well into their twenties. Make out? Pink Floyd? the kids would ask. And he would say maybe when you're older, and grin slyly at her. And she would suddenly put on her stern voice and decide it's bedtime, amidst loud protests. From everyone. Then she would shoot him a glance, from many years ago, and he would immediately agree it was bedtime. She rarely needed to look at him like that twice before he got the idea. Not that it was ever far from his mind, even after so many years.
He took another sip of the whisky, and nodded to himself. There are love stories, and there are love stories. It took her two minutes to walk through the door, shake the rain off her hair, look around, see him, smile, walk over, sink into the couch beside him, put her head on his shoulder, sigh, and start complaining. She didn't see him smiling to himself. The fact that he could see all that in those two minutes told him something - he was right. The greatest love stories were centuries old, mythical. But then, theirs was something else.
He could already hear the music.
...for there is in all the world
no greater love than mine...
^
and lay your body down...
All he wanted was a love story.
He knew there were hundreds, maybe thousands. But he always thought of theirs as something else. He could hear the songs playing when he looked at old photographs. He could hear the soundtrack of their lives when he remembered special moments, whether they were last evening or last year. He could see them sitting contentedly on the couch, watching and listening with pride, while one child played the piano and the other the violin. He could feel her eyes on the side of his face, as they looked up with a love he felt he didn't understand fully. Not then, not now.
He could see the children sitting and listening intently, with glee, as he told them stories about when he first met their mother. The heady madness of their youth, their impulsions, how her eyes took his breath away. How he would steal her away from her house, early in the mornings, and they would ride nowhere - in the sun, in the cold, in the rain. He could hear himself telling them the story they never tired of hearing, of the exact time he decided he was in love with her. He could hear the children laughing, see her blushing, and almost feel the indignant slap on the shoulder. Oh stop, she would say, and he would laugh and just move on to the next story.
And there were so many stories.
About crazy conversations in dingy coffee houses, about crazy friends and crazier trips, about obstacles and how they overcame those, about the time they used to go to rock concerts, and make out like teenagers, while well into their twenties. Make out? Pink Floyd? the kids would ask. And he would say maybe when you're older, and grin slyly at her. And she would suddenly put on her stern voice and decide it's bedtime, amidst loud protests. From everyone. Then she would shoot him a glance, from many years ago, and he would immediately agree it was bedtime. She rarely needed to look at him like that twice before he got the idea. Not that it was ever far from his mind, even after so many years.
He took another sip of the whisky, and nodded to himself. There are love stories, and there are love stories. It took her two minutes to walk through the door, shake the rain off her hair, look around, see him, smile, walk over, sink into the couch beside him, put her head on his shoulder, sigh, and start complaining. She didn't see him smiling to himself. The fact that he could see all that in those two minutes told him something - he was right. The greatest love stories were centuries old, mythical. But then, theirs was something else.
He could already hear the music.
...for there is in all the world
no greater love than mine...
^
spouted by Non-Sensei at 5/13/2005 12:30:00 AM
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