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| The Lie Lovers Tell Themselves I loved the look of her right away, in her white summer dress, sitting there. Her face tanned, her arms long and slim, with her large dark eyes, and raven hair. The summer heat had sent me there, beside the pond, beneath the oak trees, and as swans passed by in the water, I welcomed a slight and gentle breeze. She looked so cool there, dressed in white, sitting at dusk in Deering Park, while fireflies danced over marigolds, blinking on and off as it got dark. I asked if I might sit beside her, and her eyes signalled me do, then we talked on and on for hours, the way that fast friends are likely to. We found we had so much in common, we even had a mutual friend, and we laughed at each other's stories, even at ourselves, now and then. Other couples came and went, until there was just her and me, and we moved ever closer to love, lost in each other so tenderly. Neither she nor I was aware just how many hours had passed, we had forgotten about time, until a shower reminded us and fast. Laughing, we ran from the park, getting soaked but caring less, blinded a little from the shower, of rain and love and happiness. For awhile, we lived for each other, for our days at the beach or the lake, laughing and loving days and nights, and taking those chances lovers take. But summer fools lovers with its ease, and we were unprepared for fall, when we found less and less time for us, until there seemed none left at all. Then came the lie lovers tell themselves, maybe the biggest lie some lovers lie, when we told ourselves it was over, on that night we said our last goodbye. by Roland Ricker revised 2005 |
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