angsty vignette. no real plot. not quite sure why i wrote it. er—the fun part about this one is that it could be anybody, although my ship docks with ron and hermione. i staunchly believe in reader interpretation, however, so please have a go and pretend it’s whoever you want. :)
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I was hers—and you were his—the night we met out on that bridge. He stares out the window. The memories are heavy in his mind.
It was just a kiss on a bridge.
Under a meteor shower.
With the one girl I wanted to—
He runs a hand roughly over his face.
Enough.
I stopped re-living this a long time ago. I am happy now.
He looks down at the wedding invitation in his hand. Damn you for bringing all of it back.
The memories never fade, no matter how hard he scrubs at them with his guilt.
You knew then what I know now: love put down comes back somehow. Even over years of rich, full living. He looks around the kitchen, at the life he’s made for himself. Good living.
And yet—he feels the small ache in his chest that has been his constant reminder. Somehow, you have a part of me that I can never get back.
The comet came, the comet went—and hid its face in the firmament. We thought we saw a miracle that night, all those streaks of light across the sky. Everything was so surreal, and the world almost a palace, where I could have anything he wanted, consequences be damned. And there you stood, my own personal luxury.
I looked once, and then turned away. I had to. I had someone waiting for me. So did you.
When I looked again, it was much too late. He looks down and his breath catches as he reads the invite again. You’re getting married. And I can’t stand it. I don’t want anything to change. I want to have the same image of you in my head, of that beautiful eighteen year old girl I held for the best two hours of my life.
A summer wind, a cotton dress—this is how I remember you best. You looked good enough to be a dream, and it felt like nobody could touch us. Like we had been put in this moment to sustain us through the rest of our lives. A gift.
A glance held long and a stolen kiss—this is how I remember you best. We held each other so tightly. We knew it was the one perfect moment we’d have in our lives.
The fool I was is the fool I am. Why did we even start? Why didn’t we just leave it alone?
Why can’t I just leave it alone?
I’ve got a wife, I’m a family man. But when I lay in our bed, I sometimes dream I’m holding you instead.
The kids are fine, they’re six and nine, and brilliant and frustrating and beautiful. And I think you’d probably like my wife. He looks down at the glinting gold band on his left hand. I would never take back any of this. Never.
But the kitchen light seems much too bright for what I find myself thinking tonight.
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credit given where credit is due: a large foundation-forming chunk of this story is a song by richard shindell called ‘a summer wind, a cotton dress’ off his album Blue Divide on the Shanachie record label. i cannot recommend him highly enough. you can listen/purchase at www.richardshindell.com.