a story of almosts: Rocket love
Couldn't he see it as clearly as she could?
The early morning rising and the last of the coffee shared. Stumbling over each other, over kids and bags on the way out of the door.
She could see it - cleaning the kitchen after having friends over, glasses of water before bed, and making love slowly before dawn.
Ultrasounds.
Arguments.
There were a couple days with him that summer when he'd suddenly started to feel like home. The smell of him at night and the sound of his truck coming up the driveway were not only familiar, but a comfort.
Perhaps it was enough that he'd been the catalyst of such musings. The scenes playing in her head were certainly better than anything they might have had in real life. Regrettably, she’d romanticized much of it. Hell, everything about him was romantic. From his homesteader aspirations to his ocean blue eyes and full beard. She'd let her imagination and fairytale inclinations runaway completely.
He was kind and discerning. He cared for her, might have even loved her, but now that was over. In reality, the whole thing had barely even started.
She should be grateful, right? He had been good to her in that time. There were at least a handful of wonderful moments. Times where she discovered something about herself in discussion with him. Times when he planted the sweetest seeds of hope in her heart. For the first time in a long time, she was delighted by possibility. She had another reason to pray and another reason to be better.
She saw a path to clarity and peace in the picture he painted for them. It was, altogether, the loveliest almost ever-after she'd ever had. With him was the first time in years that she believed her love was solid. Finally, she was excited to add something to the familial love and support she was already accustomed to.
Oh, and how she would have loved him. The strength she would have leant him. And how loyal she would have been.
Thinking back on it now, the details are fuzzy. Marred by heartbreak, the memories don't come as clearly as they once did. Wearily she takes another sip of her drink. It's weak. The regular bartender is off and consequently, so are the drinks. She thinks it might have been better to feel all the feelings at home. To pine away in privacy and a bathrobe.
It makes little difference. She misses him all the time, with her whole body. Crying behind closed doors only means she doesn't have to wipe the tears that fall.
