Page 89 of David's Love

My voice is at odds with my words.

The woman reads my eyes briefly before putting the pictures back and closing the bag.

She drops it next to her on the table and resumes drinking coffee.

“It’s not what you'd hoped to find?” she asks after setting the cup down.

“It’s all right,” I murmur, my gaze trailing down.

A few moments move away.

“What happened to them?” I ask, rigid in my seat, lifting my eyes to her.

“Eleanor and David?” she says.

I nod in response.

“David wanted to become an engineer, and Eleanor was very supportive of him, but…” she stops, a smile creeping across her lips, her eyes moving away from mine.

“He met a woman,” I suggest.

Her focus is back on me, a shred of curiosity lining her stare.

“You know about her?”

Her.

With that single word, she tells me how consequential that woman had been in his life.

The ghost.

The one who got away.

His first love.

Perhaps the only true love.

The woman who had entered his life like a meteoroid and, instead of burning up in the stratosphere––mesosphere to be exact––became a meteorite and carved a sizable hole into his soul, so big that sometimes we’re both getting lost in it.

That’s why I’m here.

And that’s why I have her dress in my closet.

The dress that was supposed to be hers ended up hugging my frame.

He’d made a mistake, he said.

It wasn’t supposed to be hers in the end.

But that’s not what young David believed.

With her dress, I received his compassion, gentleness, and protection.

Her force was mighty and impacted things with the strength of a steel chisel biting into a marble slab.

It must’ve put a lot of pain in him before the warm waters of forgiveness filled up those craters.

“Anna,” I toss at her, like a seasoned gambler bluffing while holding a hand of mixed cards.

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