He sat on his vast porch, looking elegant as the man he has always been. He’d wear his navy blue hat and tuxedo in the most inappropriate places, this is why his face was distinguished among people. He always seemed like he’s going to meet his lover in his beautifully black fabric that would softly glitter under the moonlight.

He sat on his fancy antique wooden chair, and he seemed to recall an event that happened a long time ago, but in his mind it was kept inside a box, unmoved by time. My god, how rich he was with stories that have been captivated in few minutes in history. He has always been fascinated with the stories of victory we choose to tell, even if loss happens after victory it’s never mentioned in our heroic version of the story, nor do we choose to inform people how the hero learned to get up after his great fall in the end. It always seems like we choose the story to end the way we want it to, and the way we like it to affect people, even if it doesn’t completely convey the truth.

“Isn’t there magic in two lovers dancing under the rain?” He wondered out loud, as she looked at him, surprised.

He continued to describe the way they’d slowly sway to the music of clouds and how aggressively he’d grab her waist in an way she wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t know that he’s containing her because he’s attempting to restrain her and their counted hours from ever melting away.

He said that, when he hugged her, he’d shut his eyes tightly, the way a child would while watching an undesired scene. But she wouldn’t be looking. She wouldn’t see how all his childish fears resurrected in that moment. She wouldn’t know that he is so afraid of losing her. It hasn’t, and never would cross her mind that she was a destructive weakness of such a wide-shouldered man.

She’d delicately hold his head between her hands and kiss his forehead. But then she’d bend fast to clutch the bottom of her dress to rescue its silky fabric from soaking; there would be ponds formed soon after it started to rain heavily.

She’d look up at him, quickly, then she’d grin, because women with light in their eyes  always grin.

“Love is not born from the womb of time. Few minutes can create an ageless love story, even if the characters died, or found other lovers who’d be characters of another love story.

This is how it had been like with them, history holds in its pages a story like theirs, and repeats it for our generations.

There is magic in it; a moment of glorified love under the forces of nature that are so damn powerful, because it’s this moment, this present moment, not the past. But I still look at her while she’s sleeping, and she’d grin, because women with light in their eyes always grin”


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