perfect

Everything is perfect.

I don't mean that sarcastically. It was a perfectly beautiful afternoon, but the wind was blowing in a cloud cover, and a gust at just the right angle took one of the table umbrellas and knocked the whole table over. Even as we stood and watched I could feel a little sprinkle of rain hitting my face. Nobody else felt it. The temperature was dropping and she pulled her hand from mine to wrap her arms in her coat against the chill. My brother left for an appointment. We were left alone, she and I, watching the overturned table with the feeling that somehow it was completely unremarkable in its weirdness.

We walked home without talking, and the rain started falling and we'd sometimes brush up against each other but we were mostly huddled up against the wind and the rain. There was everything left to say, but we were saving it, savoring the moment before we had to say anything.

In the end there would be one moment that mattered--all our lives, all of time, just an overture to that one moment. Everything, from the beautiful cloudy days with the wind whipping the tables over and the rain soaking us to the bone, all of the times we spent avoiding each other's gaze, all of it perfectly building up to that one moment where we say all there is to be said.