Blind Date
Francine Witte
Jill is halfway to the restaurant.  She is all riverflow and deep, cleansing breath.  Always been this way.  When she found out there was no Santa Claus, it was an icy cool of relief.

Jim is halfway to the restaurant.  Nothing can calm the stutter of his heart.  Beating like wings, it is.  When he found out about Santa, his heartpatter almost floated him away.

Almost there, Jill admires the sunset.  Gold and pinks buttering the sky.  One with nature, she is.  When she was young, she tried to stop a wave mid-curl to ask why it was so angry.

When Jim sees the sunset, his dangerbrain kicks in.  Almost late, he puttputters in his head.  When he was young, he learned to ignore the ocean, all that back and forth of the tides.

A minute from the restaurant, Jill presses her reflection into a lipstick mirror. Nothing but nose and mouth. Nothing but even breath and words waiting calmly on her tongue.

A minute from the restaurant, Jim is plotting the tables.  Will a window shine in too much truthlight? Will a corner smack his words against the wall? But something happens when they both arrive.  A cosmic hand flattens them and make them blend.  How oddly calm he feels by the way she glides into the room.  How oddly charged she feels by the air all around him that dances to the beat of his butterfly heart.



First published: February 2017
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