Trifecta #33: Post Three

Oddly, the third prompt of Trifecta's Week 33 Extravaganza is: respond to this song in 33 to 333 words. I'm going back to the 333. Maybe it's  because of Velvet Verbosity, but I like the precision of an exact word count for these things.



Make It Last

Few things I know, but one is: in the long-term, all things are cyclical. Including emotions. Including my own. I hate this about myself, about my maleness, but it’s also true that the proximity in time of love’s last physical confirmation, well, that affects the cycle. It’s been some time now. Two weeks? Three?

I’m on my way home. I know that dinner’s waiting, and I’m late. But I’m not hurrying. The streets are packed. I should be below, on the train, on the express line to my beloved, but I am more magnanimous up here than down there. Jostling on the streets feels more companionable than avoiding eye contact and smelling the snow-wet clothes and body odor, suffering the prolonged body contact of the subway.

I’m not far now, in a geography marked by city blocks. Familiar landmarks gesture to me, hurrying me home. By not thinking of my burdens, my woes, I’m of course thinking of them, and suddenly I’m snapped both out of and back into myself: a couple on a park bench, most mundane and most sublime, ageless in winter vestments, scarf-wrapped head resting against goose-downed shoulder, gloved hand in gloved hand, lips moving in intimate murmurs. And for that moment, I am lost.

I come back, and my step quickens. I remember:  my brother driving me to the church, saying, “If you can always picture her and what she looks like as she walks up the aisle toward you, you’ll be okay.” I see her that day. I peeked out of the cloak room into which I was hastily shoved when suddenly she arrived. She gathered the skirt of her dress in one hand as she stepped from the car, ducking under the umbrella that her sister held. She smiled, and it didn’t matter that I’d forgotten the boutonnieres.

I’m almost running now, almost home. I know she’s waited for me. We can make it last. I remember again, for the thousandth time: We can make it last.