(This story, in its entirety, is contained in my book of poetry and short fiction titled, “Songs you can’t dance to” – available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble by searching ‘steven harz’)
He doesn’t recall how they’d actually met – Sunday school or second grade or summers at the swim club – all he remembered was that she had always been there. From play dates to puppy love it seemed as if she was always as close as an arm’s length or the length of the twisty cord that attached the phone to the kitchen wall.
Plaid pleated jumpers with knee socks, and tough skins and flannel shirts, they would accompany each other to the roller rink and junior high dances. His mom would drop them off and hers would collect them up after the last dance or the final skate. In the backseat of the Fairlane, skates lashed together and strewn on the floor of the car, he’d slide his leg across the vinyl seat to make contact with her bare knee and he wouldn’t look at her but he knew she was looking at him – bringing a small smile to the side of his face that was facing away from her and towards the window and the lights of the town just outside the glass.
From my book of poetry and short fiction titled, “Song’s you can’t dance to” – available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble (search ‘steven harz’)
copyright 2012 Steven Harz
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