They sat with their backs to me, side-by-side, next to the window. He wore a blue-and-red plaid shirt crossed over the shoulders with blue suspenders. Tracings of white etched the place where stylish sideburns surely once drew more than her eyes alone. Leaning in, he dwarfed her, the way a Sequoia might a Japanese Maple. He’s all brawn and strong-boned, even now, in this late season.
She wore a calico print shirt and cable-knit red sweater. Her hair, once thick and black, has thinned and mottled grey. Haphazard curls pong at her shirt- collar.
They didn’t talk much, just a whisper or a look.
A cup of steaming coffee sat between them. He grasped a butter knife in hands gnarled at the joints. Holding a small jar of honey over the cup, he scraped and scraped until he was sure he had mined every bit of that golden nectar. Then he placed the knife across the saucer, stirred the coffee with a clean spoon, and pushed the cup in front of her, gingerly, careful not to spill.
She took a slow sip, inhaling it. Then another.
And for that brief singular moment, as a gentle rain fell over Nashville, everything about the world seemed right.
Seemed just perfect, in fact.
What about you?
When is the last time everything seemed just perfect in your corner of the world?