On The Verge Of Autumn
I'd seen her about town often enough – pleasingly plump, neatly dressed, with snow-white hair that belied her age, and such blue eyes. And now we were sharing a store front over-hang against the sudden downpour. She must have been about my age, no more than forty then. A classic merry widow, if widow she was.
To be sure, we talked about the weather and other important things, till at length I found myself saying: “… but I don't drink wines anymore.” To which she replied, making the moment memorable: “Oh I know, wine used to make me so romantic, but now I just get spacey.” It was about then that the rain lessened and she decided to chance the drizzle.
As I said, I'd often seen her around the town – often – but after that I never saw her again. The image of her running across the parking lot, in neat spiked-shoes, dodging puddles with a pleasing bounce, a tabloid tented over her snow-white hair, is the last image I have of her.
* Larry Kimmel is a US poet and writer of both
haikai and mainstream forms. This story was first published in Bottle Rockets in 2006. It also appears in Larry's new collection The Piercing Blue of Sirius which is currently being reviewed by IS&T.
