As the hourly chiming of the grandfather clock marked time, the man – his age reflected in greying temples and permanent laugh lines etched and pronounced – settled into their well-worn couch, the old leather crinkled here and there even as his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
And he was smiling now – a whimsical, playfully quaint, and fanciful smile – as he recalled their memories there.
Often on cold, late winter’s evenings – blanketed and cushioned in the comfortable confines of the crinkled leather – they’d sit cuddled together and he’d read to her from their favorite romance novels.
Her eyes would close, her head would nestle against his shoulder, and it was then, thinking she was asleep, that for fun he would add his own flowery description to the scene being played out in the pages of their love story.
“The silvery sides of the rainbow trout were caught momentarily in the rays of the setting sun before the lunker splashed back into the dark pool, struggling fiercely against the line.”
‘That’s not bad,’ he prided myself, having extemporaneously provided additional color commentary to the text.
‘I should have been a writer.’
She wouldn’t stir, so he would wax yet more eloquently, with even more expression, adding yet more of his own imagination to their love story.
“The deer with its little speckled fawn. . .” and so forth he would carry on, and get carried away, but as soon as he would say “and the butterflies flitted about…” she would, without opening her eyes, say “that’s not true. Read. What’s. In. The. Book.”
It was always “the butterflies” that gave him away.
It’s the butterflies he feels now as he smiles at that memory.
But it’s a wistful, wishful smile.
Because she’s gone now.
And he sits on the old leather couch alone.
