Tell a tale of purity

Sing a song of white

Trace the form of chastity

Plumb the depths of light

A sea of cherries tossed about them.  They punted from stall to stall, swimming in the burgundy tide, intoxicated by the odors wafted from this side of that.  The breeze off the lake was crisp, and it poured a cherry cocktail over their heads, sparkling and delicious.  They held hands as the walked, he eating cherries with his right and she with her left.  Hubbub or no, theirs was the day, and a small universe was theirs, with only their bodies in orbit, and cherries spread like planetary rings.

From time to time she would lean on his shoulder, rubbing her long nose on the soft flannel, and he would turn his head a bit, lean down, and kiss the top of hers.  She was his, only for the weekend now, but they talked freely of marriage, children, and a life poured out of their lips, splashed on the passers-by, and flowed into the cataract of conversations all around them.  Two months had separated them, though they had spoken and written, but two months is an eon for young love.  An outsider might have assumed there would be no fresh news, given the frequency of their communications, but that outsider has not loved a twenty-one-year-old girl.

School was good, yes, it was a hard semester, but two more and they'd be done, free to do whatever it is that students think graduates do.  Certainly get married, oh yes, immediately!  Forthwith!  Without delay!  Maybe June?  July might be better, a little more time to plan.  Did she have to do a recital that semester?  Yes, she did, and he had accreditation exams, so maybe July.  They wouldn't pine too much between May and July, right?  Ha!  Pining knows no reason, no bounds, no minimums.  Yes, he would miss her when she had to go.  Terribly so.  Why couldn't she stay the week?  Your parents.

Cool air from the lake flowed between them for the first time that day.  They looked at cherry baskets on opposite sides of the path for a few minutes.  She shivered, and it looked like the Michigan breeze was convincing her Arizona skin to crawl.

A few words were sent out, like heliographs between their mountains, instantly spoken and so distant.  She said she needed to go back to her hotel and get ready for the opera that night, and he should make sure to look fabulous.  But fabulous fell off her lips like they were numb and it was an icicle.  He kissed her on the cheek, and his lips were dry and cool.

***

Black and purple draped from her slim body, rubies in her ears (that he had given her on an anniversary), and gracing the very air around her with her perfume, she was stunning.  Her hair cascaded down behind one bare shoulder, and a titanium brooch held the dress straps to the other.  Elevator doors glided open, and she tripped lightly on her metallic-toned heels into the lobby.  They matched the brooch, and her pocketbook.  She was radiant, eyes sparkling with forgiveness for the afternoon, and cherry-colored lips ready to seal the pardon with a kiss.

He wore black, trimmed with a gold tie, pocket square, and cufflinks.  His mane of blond hair set off the formality of his dress, and on net he came across as handsome and a bit gawky.  He rose from the bench in the lobby, and met her in two steps.  He took her arm, a bit stiffly, and they headed for the curb.  Toyotas are a poor stand-in for a coach-and-four, but the lady conducted herself royally as he opened her door.  No words passed on the short drive to the theater, and she serenly reposed in the pleasure of their finery.

Puccini came and went, and as the curtain fell on the bohemians in Paris (whom she thoroughly admired and sought to emulate), she caught a fraction of a frown on his face.  Theatergoers bore them outdoors again, the second human tidal motion they had drifted in today, and they walked arm in arm through the storefronts,  Lampposts feebly competed with the northern summer sun, and they found a cafe with a quiet booth by a mirrored wall, looked out an a reversed Lake Michigan.  The sun went down over wine, a few cheeses, and more cherries.  Northern sunsets made her a little sad.  They just winked out, no fuss, no muss, no blood-red dust.  Most of the moon appeared over their entree.  She had duck, and the meat was the color of tiger's-eye, rich, and delicious.  He picked at a steak, medium-well.  

Small words had ventured out onto the field, playing warm-up with talk about Puccini, the food, the night, the moon.  She daubed her full lips with the napkin, put it down, and asked him:

"Are you alright?"

"Hmm?"

"You, are you alright?"

"Hmm.  I think so.  Why?"

"The corners of your eyes are down to your collar, and your mouth is trying to follow.  What's wrong?"

"We need to talk."

A boa constrictor coiled up around her chest.  She slowed her breathing, and took a sip of wine.  "What about?"  The sunshine in her voice was canned, saved up for just such an occasion.

"You know, this afternoon, we were talking.  About life, and us, and stuff."  He was drawing triangles in the A-1 on his steak. 

"Uh-huh...?"  Her voice got lower.  Still pert.

"Look, I love you, or I think I do.  I don't know.  My parents don't want this to happen.  I don't know why.  Maybe I want it.  I don't know anymore.  They had some good points.  I don't know what you're gonna do with your degree.  We want different things.  We argue sometimes.  I don't know."  He let out a sigh with the rest of his air.  He took a deep breath, and inhaled some water.

"Dearest, I love you.  I know I do.  I'm not sure what you want, but I want you."  Her voice was low.  It was even, but it was even like a tray of marbles.  Any motion and it would go.

"I think we should break up.  I need to figure myself out, and you need to figure yourself out.  We don't really know anything, we're so young.  It would just be better...for now."  He slumped in the booth.

"Sweetie, that's your parents talking."  A marble wobbled.

"Maybe, but maybe they're right.  Anyway, look, this is hard for me, too!"

"Oh?"  She smiled.  She had beautiful lips, but right now they were a chalice of poison.

"Oh don't."  He said.  "Look, here's some money, it's plenty.  For dinner.  The hotel's down the block.  I gotta go."  And he rose, and he turned, and he strode out the door, half-striking it with a shoulder as he passed.

The marbles moved now.  She held her pocketbook up over her eyes and her nose ran down a quivering lip.  She traded the pocketbook for the napkin, and fired three short sobs into it.  Composing herself, she rose and went to the bathroom.  Finding the farthest stall, she cried for six minutes.  Their waitress came in.

"Honey, you alright?" 

"uh huh" she sniffed loudly.

"You just take your time, honey.  You need anything?"

"no, thanks" she sniffed again.

Ten more minutes had her back together enough to fix up her makeup and return to the table.  The check was there, zeroed out, with a broken heart and the words "feel better, hon" penciled on it.  She smiled.  This one was real, and she was beautiful again.

The cloying cherry scent fought her all the way back to the hotel.  She checked in on her flight the next morning, and fell asleep in her dress, sprawled out in her finery, a wounded bird, beautiful and alone.