Frangible
Chella Courington
He walked out of the shadows, dressed in a pinstripe suit and holding a white carnation she didn’t grasp until they were in the café, sitting across from each other, the candle’s flame between them. He laughed long and deep, rising from a place she had forgotten. Now she could feel the mystery, how two people fall in love by chance. Untangling her silver bracelet caught by the threads of her sweater, she glanced up to see him coming toward her. He suggested they drink brandy at a corner table bolted to the ground then gave her the flower. She held the stem as if given something fragile, a glass wand resting on her palm, adjusting to her warmth. He said he’d just picked it when he saw her and remembered what it meant to have someone waiting only for him.




First published: February, 2015
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