Thank you to Rochelle, as always, for Friday Fictioneers.
Half-way across the Atlantic I felt no relief, just guilt, and so very much regret.
Yesterday Dmytro and I drank Turkish coffee, ate pastry I knew in another time would taste extraordinary, while we tried to laugh, pretend the worst was not impending, and interweave our fingers as if we could form an unbreakable bond.
When he handed me several leatherbound journals–“for safe-keeping”– handwritten in words I couldn’t read, I bit my lip hard to stop myself from demanding, needing.
He shrugged. “I was a poet. Now I am a soldier. It is time to make my pretty words true.”