Falling

By Marissa Gonzalez

They’re still fresh, sensuous and dewy, looking magnificent in that vase.  They’re like the kind of night we had when you gave them to me. “ Roses? Thanks.”

We had dinner at that place with mussels in wine sauce and their signature salad smoothly going down with the help of a little alcohol, candlelight, soothing jazz and talk about what we do at work, how we spend our free time “ Oh, that’s right you said you liked that. Maybe we can do that together sometime.”

Holding hands as we walked along the dock talking about how the moonlight makes everything on land look as if it has been buffed and polished to a shine. On the water, the moon created an undulating show of shimmer and darkness.  We stopped and counted waves.  Then we counted the spots the moon cast glimmers on the water. That’s the way we are.  We embraced each other every so often and gave each other gentle kisses on the cheeks and the lips.

We opted for a drive around the city before you brought me home. Street lights and shadows danced around the car.  I saw you looking at my legs bare in my tiny dress.  I laughed as I glanced at the ruggedness of your chest and arms that caught the laugh, taking my breath away.

You pulled into my driveway and turned on the radio.  This time it was dance music.  “You like this song too?  You want to go dancing sometime?”  “Yes.”  We shimmied and jiggled to the music for a while.  You turned the music down.  Hot embraces and passionate kissing followed.  “I have to go in now.”  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I would have invited you in, but I didn’t know you well enough.  The phone rang.  “Hey, will you keep me company on my drive home.”  “Yes, I had a really great time.”  “Me too…”   I caressed the silky petals of the roses.  I smelled them and took in their aromatic scent intoxicating me with the memory of everything that had happened that night—the candlelit dinner; the moonlit walk; the romantic drive and the passionate kisses.

There was also promise in that aroma – the promise of butterflies in my stomach as I meet your parents; the promise of the contentment one feels at having the companionship of a truly gentle man; the promise of fumbling with buttons and zippers as we kiss and caress each other the first time we would make love; the promise of someone to share the holidays with; the promise of a proposal with words that would fill my heart with joy and my eyes with tears; the promise of showing off the diamond; the promise of a simple, simple ivory dress; the promise of a June wedding with all our friends and family there; the promise of you helping me pull the bobby pins that hold my up-do in place on our wedding night; the promise of making time serve us in our home by giving us the freedom to satisfy each other; the promise that each day we spend as man and wife would carry with it an echo of what took place that night. I stopped and pulled myself back to the conversation.  I didn’t want to get ahead of the then and there.  I sat across from the roses as we spoke so I could stare at their awesome beauty.  

That evening is a bouquet of roses.  I’m in love.

The series of pieces in Pink and Cream were written shortly after Marissa’s divorce. She hope it serves as a sign to others that she understands the pain of divorce. Currently, she lives in Cleveland. She spends her time writing and working on her jewelry business

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