Steven Hunley
05-10-2011, 09:23 PM
http://youtu.be/ykU8iSKkJR0
To Love Somebody
by
Steven Hunley
They looked like two friends walking through the park. They walked side by side, yet apart. She was looking away at the ducks on the pond. He was looking at her. The tops of the trees swayed back and forth in the breeze; a small boy flew a metallic kite with a red streaming tale.
On her left hand, on the third finger, a gold ring. The wife of a best friend.
He felt “that way” about her for months now, but hadn’t said a thing. He knew she didn’t feel the same. The walk-way was dappled with sunlight and shade, as if touched by a painter’s brush.
The pond was a Monet of water lilies.
All he noticed were the shadows.
A light, a certain kind of light, you know the kind I mean, had never shone on him. He lived his life in darkness, in obscurity, in silence. His feelings remained unspoken, his desires, unfulfilled. Love hurts when only one’s in love.
She didn’t see him as a man, but as a companion, at times a confidant, or a play-mate. Always a good friend, nothing more.
He wanted her eyes to see him as a lover, or a paramour at the least, or perhaps, with luck, her knight in shining armor.
She preached spirituality. He spoke only of the flesh. Their two worlds were never to meet.
They stopped. She dipped her hand into the water. Rivulets escaped her palm and ran between her fingers. He watched the back of her head. Her hair was up, but where it met her shoulders, soft delicate curls wound down her pale neck. His consciousness- lost in the loops of her hair.
When she turned around she was crying.
“What’s wrong, Michelle?”
“It’s not working out,” she sobbed. “It hasn’t been working out for some time.”
Suddenly she put her right hand to her left, pulling off the ring, casting it into the water.
He took out his handkerchief and dried her tears, then gave her the handkerchief to hold.
“Let’s go back. We can talk over coffee.”
The walk back was spectacular. He noticed the smell of the freshly mown lawn. The sun streamed through the rustling leaves and surrounded them with a cathedral of light. The day was new, fresh, inexplicably changed.
And if you had been there as I was, if you had seen them as I did, you’d notice she was holding his hand.
I was the boy with the kite.
To Love Somebody
by
Steven Hunley
They looked like two friends walking through the park. They walked side by side, yet apart. She was looking away at the ducks on the pond. He was looking at her. The tops of the trees swayed back and forth in the breeze; a small boy flew a metallic kite with a red streaming tale.
On her left hand, on the third finger, a gold ring. The wife of a best friend.
He felt “that way” about her for months now, but hadn’t said a thing. He knew she didn’t feel the same. The walk-way was dappled with sunlight and shade, as if touched by a painter’s brush.
The pond was a Monet of water lilies.
All he noticed were the shadows.
A light, a certain kind of light, you know the kind I mean, had never shone on him. He lived his life in darkness, in obscurity, in silence. His feelings remained unspoken, his desires, unfulfilled. Love hurts when only one’s in love.
She didn’t see him as a man, but as a companion, at times a confidant, or a play-mate. Always a good friend, nothing more.
He wanted her eyes to see him as a lover, or a paramour at the least, or perhaps, with luck, her knight in shining armor.
She preached spirituality. He spoke only of the flesh. Their two worlds were never to meet.
They stopped. She dipped her hand into the water. Rivulets escaped her palm and ran between her fingers. He watched the back of her head. Her hair was up, but where it met her shoulders, soft delicate curls wound down her pale neck. His consciousness- lost in the loops of her hair.
When she turned around she was crying.
“What’s wrong, Michelle?”
“It’s not working out,” she sobbed. “It hasn’t been working out for some time.”
Suddenly she put her right hand to her left, pulling off the ring, casting it into the water.
He took out his handkerchief and dried her tears, then gave her the handkerchief to hold.
“Let’s go back. We can talk over coffee.”
The walk back was spectacular. He noticed the smell of the freshly mown lawn. The sun streamed through the rustling leaves and surrounded them with a cathedral of light. The day was new, fresh, inexplicably changed.
And if you had been there as I was, if you had seen them as I did, you’d notice she was holding his hand.
I was the boy with the kite.