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  • Writer's pictureLeah Jones


We are standing on a cliff above the Atlantic Ocean. A gust of wind unwraps my blue knitted scarf from my neck. He grabs the scarf and wraps it around my neck and we head back to the safety of the car.


At the end of a dinner that has not gone too well, he asks, “What time should I pick you up in the morning?” “My flight’s at 7:30.” “I’ll be there at 6, but I’ll call before I leave the house.”


I kiss him twice on the arm, because I can’t reach his lips. “I’ve never had two kisses on the arm before.” And he pulls me closer.


When we shake hands, I realize his hands are not the calloused hands I’d been expecting for months. His hands are soft, but at least they are not clammy.


Walking home from the jazz club, we walk around the Transamerica pyramid. A pile of white flowers is on the ground, tossed out from the five star restaurant. I pick one up and he complains that I beat him to it.


“Get yourself a treat,” he offers. I pick a bag of Skittles and head back to the truck.

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