![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
same_skyYou might remember I posted a couple of snippets of fiction last year. This is the last one in the series. The first two parts are linked below if you never read them, or don't remember them.
I. Bud
II. Bud Remembers
She became a widow thirty-eight years after she said "I do".
She still takes silk flowers to his grave on holidays and with the change of each season. It's not that she's still in mourning for a beloved husband, but she feels it proper to maintain certain standards. It is, after all, no one's business but her own that she had felt only guilty relief when the man had died.
She had not married for love, though she had thought for a while that she had. Dan was there at exactly the wrong time and she had married him before she even knew his middle name. Marry in haste, repent in leisure, as the saying goes, and Esther knew that truer words had never been spoken. She had thought her life was going to be something fabulous, sparkly and clean and perfect. Lord knows that it hadn't been up until then, but she had been nineteen and an idiot. Her family had been poor, and Dan had a car and a ready smile and big plans for his future in his father's furniture business. She had liked him enough to pretend that he loved her--at least, she had until the roof fell in on the furniture store and on his dreams, too, and Dan had spent the next thirty years drinking himself to death. She thought he had liked her enough to pretend that she loved him, too, but the only things that had come of their lifetime of mutual deception were two beautiful children and the bitter taste of failure.
It had begun with the cursed yellow shoes, the strappy sandals that had cost her every penny of her meager savings. Her mother had told her that they were the worst sort of foolishness, that she should buy sensible working shoes that would last for more than a season, but Esther had had a lifetime of sensible shoes. She had been looking desperately for that twinkling future she was so sure she would have, so she had bought the shoes anyway, and Dan had walked into her life the very next day. It had been a foolish symbolic gesture--oh, to be nineteen again--that she was not her mother, and her shoes would never be sensible, but look where they had gotten her. She had been wearing them when she met Dan, and she had been wearing them when he proposed, and she wore them for the last time on the night that she learned what true regret, the kind that lasts a lifetime, felt like.
When the heel of those shiny yellow high-heeled shoes had snapped, she had stumbled, and she would have fallen if a stranger had not caught her. He had been tall, and wide across the shoulders, and strong. She had felt like she weighed no more than a feather for that endless moment in his arms, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the future that could have been. She saw a man who would laugh with her and play baseball with his kids in the front yard and bring her flowers on her birthday. She saw the man that she had always wanted in his eyes, and he had arrived far, far too late for her to reach for that life he promised, the one that she knew then she would never have. Dan, who had been waiting on her nearby, rushed to her side when he saw her stumble, and he tucked her protectively under his arm--she had never told him how much she hated that. As she had let herself be led away, she couldn't stop herself from looking back at what could have been. He had still been staring after her, and there was no doubt in her mind that he had felt it too, that feeling that they had just found and lost the most important thing in the world.
She had known even then that she was making a mistake, but had also known that walking away was her penance, and the right thing to do. She wished that she could have turned away from Dan and reached for that beautiful man and that beautiful life he had wordlessly offered her. Instead, she had walked away from him and married Dan three days later. Her only consolation, as she pledged her life to a man that she could no longer pretend was hers, had been that she was doing something good, something right, for that man that she had fallen in love with in the space of just one look.
Seven months later, Judy had been born. Times had been so different then, and she didn't know if she could have done anything differently even if she had known what was in her future. She had found out years later that he owned a flower shop in town, and she had always felt a pang when she drove by that little store. (She also couldn't help but notice that the roof seemed perfectly sound.) She saw him around town now and then, and they exchanged pleasantries, but he never mentioned the night she fell into his arms, and she certainly didn't either. She knew he hadn't forgotten, though, because his eyes turned sad when he saw her. When Dan had died and she began taking flowers to his grave, she hadn't been able to stop herself from buying them at his store. She didn't know what she had been hoping for--it was more than forty years too late for a second chance--but she only knew she couldn't stop herself from going. He had spoken gruffly to her every time she came in, as if he felt awkward that she was in his store. She knew that she would never be able to tell him how sorry she was, how much she wished that they could have had a chance at a life together. How would you even start when neither of them had ever said a word about that long-ago evening to each other? How would you tell a man that you had been longing for him for forty-six years, throughout a worthless marriage, and over just one look?
It could have been sparkly and clean and perfect, but it wasn't, and it isn't. But she could at least see him on holidays, and with the change of seasons, and she could still imagine a different life than the one she had led.
I. Bud
II. Bud Remembers
She became a widow thirty-eight years after she said "I do".
She still takes silk flowers to his grave on holidays and with the change of each season. It's not that she's still in mourning for a beloved husband, but she feels it proper to maintain certain standards. It is, after all, no one's business but her own that she had felt only guilty relief when the man had died.
She had not married for love, though she had thought for a while that she had. Dan was there at exactly the wrong time and she had married him before she even knew his middle name. Marry in haste, repent in leisure, as the saying goes, and Esther knew that truer words had never been spoken. She had thought her life was going to be something fabulous, sparkly and clean and perfect. Lord knows that it hadn't been up until then, but she had been nineteen and an idiot. Her family had been poor, and Dan had a car and a ready smile and big plans for his future in his father's furniture business. She had liked him enough to pretend that he loved her--at least, she had until the roof fell in on the furniture store and on his dreams, too, and Dan had spent the next thirty years drinking himself to death. She thought he had liked her enough to pretend that she loved him, too, but the only things that had come of their lifetime of mutual deception were two beautiful children and the bitter taste of failure.
It had begun with the cursed yellow shoes, the strappy sandals that had cost her every penny of her meager savings. Her mother had told her that they were the worst sort of foolishness, that she should buy sensible working shoes that would last for more than a season, but Esther had had a lifetime of sensible shoes. She had been looking desperately for that twinkling future she was so sure she would have, so she had bought the shoes anyway, and Dan had walked into her life the very next day. It had been a foolish symbolic gesture--oh, to be nineteen again--that she was not her mother, and her shoes would never be sensible, but look where they had gotten her. She had been wearing them when she met Dan, and she had been wearing them when he proposed, and she wore them for the last time on the night that she learned what true regret, the kind that lasts a lifetime, felt like.
When the heel of those shiny yellow high-heeled shoes had snapped, she had stumbled, and she would have fallen if a stranger had not caught her. He had been tall, and wide across the shoulders, and strong. She had felt like she weighed no more than a feather for that endless moment in his arms, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the future that could have been. She saw a man who would laugh with her and play baseball with his kids in the front yard and bring her flowers on her birthday. She saw the man that she had always wanted in his eyes, and he had arrived far, far too late for her to reach for that life he promised, the one that she knew then she would never have. Dan, who had been waiting on her nearby, rushed to her side when he saw her stumble, and he tucked her protectively under his arm--she had never told him how much she hated that. As she had let herself be led away, she couldn't stop herself from looking back at what could have been. He had still been staring after her, and there was no doubt in her mind that he had felt it too, that feeling that they had just found and lost the most important thing in the world.
She had known even then that she was making a mistake, but had also known that walking away was her penance, and the right thing to do. She wished that she could have turned away from Dan and reached for that beautiful man and that beautiful life he had wordlessly offered her. Instead, she had walked away from him and married Dan three days later. Her only consolation, as she pledged her life to a man that she could no longer pretend was hers, had been that she was doing something good, something right, for that man that she had fallen in love with in the space of just one look.
Seven months later, Judy had been born. Times had been so different then, and she didn't know if she could have done anything differently even if she had known what was in her future. She had found out years later that he owned a flower shop in town, and she had always felt a pang when she drove by that little store. (She also couldn't help but notice that the roof seemed perfectly sound.) She saw him around town now and then, and they exchanged pleasantries, but he never mentioned the night she fell into his arms, and she certainly didn't either. She knew he hadn't forgotten, though, because his eyes turned sad when he saw her. When Dan had died and she began taking flowers to his grave, she hadn't been able to stop herself from buying them at his store. She didn't know what she had been hoping for--it was more than forty years too late for a second chance--but she only knew she couldn't stop herself from going. He had spoken gruffly to her every time she came in, as if he felt awkward that she was in his store. She knew that she would never be able to tell him how sorry she was, how much she wished that they could have had a chance at a life together. How would you even start when neither of them had ever said a word about that long-ago evening to each other? How would you tell a man that you had been longing for him for forty-six years, throughout a worthless marriage, and over just one look?
It could have been sparkly and clean and perfect, but it wasn't, and it isn't. But she could at least see him on holidays, and with the change of seasons, and she could still imagine a different life than the one she had led.
