A Sunday Story, only it's not Sunday.
Her hand. I see it hanging out the driver’s side window. I know it’s her. It’s been eight years, but I know.
I look up. The light is still red. I have time. I look back at her hand, the unmistakable tiny heart at her wrist. It hurt so bad that heart. I know. I have one too.
I turn my own hand over now, rest it on the steering wheel, see the heart. I look back at her hand hanging out the window, the same red ink as mine. It is calling out to me.
Eight years. I haven’t had eyes on her for eight years but I can never forget that hand, that heart, even if now there are rings on her finger that weren’t there when I left.
My heart is heavy with that. It is so heavy. Did I think she’d wait? I did.
I look at my wrist again. I take my foot off the break a little, inch closer.
I look up. The light is still red. I have time.
I inch closer.
I can’t see the heart anymore, but I can see her arm, the bend in her elbow, the smoothness of her skin, long hair falling over her shoulder.
“Look at me,” I whisper. “Look this way. I never stopped loving you.”
I stare at the side of her face, long eye lashes and the curve of her ear sticking out from hair she's pushed behind it. I remember doing that too, pushing thick locks of hair behind her ear, pleading with her, saying I was sorry and wrong and loved her so much.
I still am. I still do.
I look up. The light turns green. There is no time.
I look to her, but she is pulling forward, the heart on her wrist tucked back inside the window now, my own heart hidden against the steering wheel.
I should follow her. Just like eight years before, I should go where she is going.
But instead I turn left.