the curtain of bangs. His light-hearted smile absolved her. “I’ve had a thing for you for a while.” He shrugged it off and reached down for his yoga mat.
She forced herself to look in his eyes as he straightened. “I’m not ready.”
He cleared his throat. “So when will you be?” And he flung the mat over his shoulder.
Her stomach did a flip and she licked the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know. It’s still fresh.” Her gaze wavered.
Jeremy flicked the hair out of his eyes. “I’m not going to push it. Don’t worry.” He smiled wider, showing teeth. “But you’ve got to know how damn hot you are. Maybe when you get back from this trip.”
Loti relaxed the hands she’d balled up. A warm blush bloomed across her cheeks, and she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”
Loti replayed the interlude with Jeremy as she walked down Main Street staring at the sidewalk. Oblivious to the cars whizzing by, she zipped her fleece jacket up to her chin and stuffed her hands in the pockets. It was one of those pre-spring mountain nights: crisp, clear and smelling like damp earth and new growth. The air was like a cool compress on a fresh bruise, easing her overheated and throbbing thoughts. Glancing at her Uggs, she was grateful she wore them instead of the funky dance shoes she often bummed around in.
At the corner of Main and Davis, she bit her lip and her eyes clouded over, unseeing. She flashed back on Jeremy’s eager hands, his clean and musky scent, and his warm lips. She smashed cold fingers to her mouth. If I live a hundred lifetimes, I can never earn the right to feel anything like that, again—ever. Her husband of five years had been cremated a few months ago, and the ashes were still in a wooden box on her altar at their house. She’d taken them home until she could spread him at their favorite vista in the Blue Ridge Mountains—MaKaffee’s Knob. She planned to spend part of her sabbatical hiking there. She scratched at her cheek which was pink with cold and narrowed her eyes. How long has it been since the memorial service? June 11 th and today was—
“No,” she gasped, covering her eyes with her hand. It had been over nine months since the quiet, uncomfortable gathering at Gram Dupree’s house.
David’s grandmother wore the simple black dress with the white lace collar. Her soft voice and gracious demeanor permitted everyone to murmur their condolences to Loti, then with great care she steered them away. Loti didn’t ask Gram to do that. But she was grateful because she had no idea how to respond to: “We’re praying for you” and “We’re so sorry for your loss.” The words made her angry for some ungodly reason, but the most heartless was, “We have to trust that God has a plan.” The only condolences that made any sense were: “There are no words,” or a simple, “We love you”. There weren’t words in any language to offer comfort when someone just picked out a pine box to cremate her husband in.
Loti still stood at the corner of Main and Davis when the light changed to red. She’d missed a whole cycle. “Damn it,” she mum-bled. I’m such a space cadet.
Slapping the pedestrian walk button, she glared at the blinking red hand while tapping her fingers against her thigh as cars whisked thoughtlessly by. A chill flowed up her spine, and she shivered, snapping her out of her pity party. A rumbling motorcycle slowed at the light. It’s too damn cold to ride. Her own little Honda Ascot sat in the shed next to David’s BMW, unridden since she passed her motorcycle test the fall before David got sick. She hadn’t the heart or inclination to ride. It was his dream to ride to the Sturgis motorcycle rally. The Harley Fat Boy and its rider turned down Davis Street, and she cringed that the rider wore no helmet, his long braid trailing behind.
When the light changed, she crossed the street, keeping her eyes on the biker as he coasted into the space under the Rosemary
She forced herself to look in his eyes as he straightened. “I’m not ready.”
He cleared his throat. “So when will you be?” And he flung the mat over his shoulder.
Her stomach did a flip and she licked the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know. It’s still fresh.” Her gaze wavered.
Jeremy flicked the hair out of his eyes. “I’m not going to push it. Don’t worry.” He smiled wider, showing teeth. “But you’ve got to know how damn hot you are. Maybe when you get back from this trip.”
Loti relaxed the hands she’d balled up. A warm blush bloomed across her cheeks, and she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”
Loti replayed the interlude with Jeremy as she walked down Main Street staring at the sidewalk. Oblivious to the cars whizzing by, she zipped her fleece jacket up to her chin and stuffed her hands in the pockets. It was one of those pre-spring mountain nights: crisp, clear and smelling like damp earth and new growth. The air was like a cool compress on a fresh bruise, easing her overheated and throbbing thoughts. Glancing at her Uggs, she was grateful she wore them instead of the funky dance shoes she often bummed around in.
At the corner of Main and Davis, she bit her lip and her eyes clouded over, unseeing. She flashed back on Jeremy’s eager hands, his clean and musky scent, and his warm lips. She smashed cold fingers to her mouth. If I live a hundred lifetimes, I can never earn the right to feel anything like that, again—ever. Her husband of five years had been cremated a few months ago, and the ashes were still in a wooden box on her altar at their house. She’d taken them home until she could spread him at their favorite vista in the Blue Ridge Mountains—MaKaffee’s Knob. She planned to spend part of her sabbatical hiking there. She scratched at her cheek which was pink with cold and narrowed her eyes. How long has it been since the memorial service? June 11 th and today was—
“No,” she gasped, covering her eyes with her hand. It had been over nine months since the quiet, uncomfortable gathering at Gram Dupree’s house.
David’s grandmother wore the simple black dress with the white lace collar. Her soft voice and gracious demeanor permitted everyone to murmur their condolences to Loti, then with great care she steered them away. Loti didn’t ask Gram to do that. But she was grateful because she had no idea how to respond to: “We’re praying for you” and “We’re so sorry for your loss.” The words made her angry for some ungodly reason, but the most heartless was, “We have to trust that God has a plan.” The only condolences that made any sense were: “There are no words,” or a simple, “We love you”. There weren’t words in any language to offer comfort when someone just picked out a pine box to cremate her husband in.
Loti still stood at the corner of Main and Davis when the light changed to red. She’d missed a whole cycle. “Damn it,” she mum-bled. I’m such a space cadet.
Slapping the pedestrian walk button, she glared at the blinking red hand while tapping her fingers against her thigh as cars whisked thoughtlessly by. A chill flowed up her spine, and she shivered, snapping her out of her pity party. A rumbling motorcycle slowed at the light. It’s too damn cold to ride. Her own little Honda Ascot sat in the shed next to David’s BMW, unridden since she passed her motorcycle test the fall before David got sick. She hadn’t the heart or inclination to ride. It was his dream to ride to the Sturgis motorcycle rally. The Harley Fat Boy and its rider turned down Davis Street, and she cringed that the rider wore no helmet, his long braid trailing behind.
When the light changed, she crossed the street, keeping her eyes on the biker as he coasted into the space under the Rosemary
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