Left Hand Free

I saw you through the screen, beautiful people engrossed by your words; but between the columns you dashed, avoiding, yet looking back for something. Again I see you in the courtyard, and your hands are free for touching, I know because I am looking. I couldn’t dare get close enough behind you, to brush my hand to yours. Maybe you’ll notice me, from afar, and remember the longing.


Reaching across the table, my hand finds the wine glass my husband doesn’t think to fill. It was something that she said – the way she looked at you, like she shouldn’t have said it – about a mutual friend of hers, between you two. She was talking about our dogs, Rex and whatever hers is called, how they both were cared for by Meesha. I remember her, she was the beautiful farm girl turned scientist; How full of life she was? Almost too good to be true, like the demure geologist, who was so interested in your work. I remember when we were driving through the vineyards, to drop Rex off, before a family trip, maybe to visit your parents. “How do you know where she lives?” I asked. It didn’t make sense, you didn’t have her address out, and you weren’t much paying attention to those tucked away street signs. And I remembered further back, you told me what a great new research assistant you had, and then you said she was engaged to be married, isn’t that great? My memory I mean, because she looked confused, and then amused, when I asked her if she’s getting married soon; How fucking amusing is that? Oh, the longing I could have had, if only they were the first.


His hair is salt and more pepper, handsome from a way back kinda place. I like it when it is not too short, and he runs his hand through it, in a grounding kind of way; and his kindness is evident when people meet him; women love him and, maybe, so could I imagine his fingers finding mine. They could touch my chest, and feel my heart heaving.


But this is not what brings us here, on this blue-bonnet, early afternoon wine-event day. This just isn’t working for me, maybe that is where I need to start. “Okay, you want a divorce, you ask, what weekends do you want the kids?” Like that is where you start. You think it’s about switching weekends; I wonder if you’ve already told your mother, has she affirmed you? Is that why they are unsure about Christmas.


Let’s do Crested Butte, I say. Imagine how great that would be to go back, but we’d stay in a nicer place. We’d have to with the kids, and all, and it would be the first time being there in Winter. I love Crested Butte in summer, and I’d love to see it in Fall just when the leaves are turning. We’d pick up some cherry wine, before driving thru the Palisades, and some other good wines; Stocking up for Winter, you’d say.


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