I Turn Left

July 26, 2018

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. 


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