A Romance Between October and August

He always caught her out of the corner of his eye, just as he was burrowing into sleep’s dark center. He would catch a glimpse of her. And this glimpse, alone, was enough to fuel his dreams for an eleven-month slumber.

And it was always something strange he remembered. The curve of her ankle, perhaps, strapped inside her leather sandals, or a curl of her hair, backlit by the sun’s bright rays, always an indeterminable shade of shimmering wonder. And beads. Blue glass beads against the soft white of her throat or the inside of her wrist.

He knew her, and yet he didn’t. She was an enigma he felt comfortable inside of, a soft dream he could drape around himself as the winds got sharper and started to smell like snow around the edges, and it always did too soon. By the end, the nights were almost too unbearable to spend alone. And that was when he was kept company by the brief memory of her, just minutes strung together, really.

Beads on a necklace.

The End

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