Fiction, or truth? Let me know what you think at bwcatlett@comcast.net.
The skirt she wore, as best I remember it, was wool. Not a scratchy, itchy kind of wool, but the softest, most supple wool I had ever touched. It had black lines, sort of a checkered board square design on it's side, on a white background. She wore it often because most of our times together were in cold weather. We only dated from mid October through mid June. I can remember laying my hand in her lap and her clasping her hands around mine as if I might have warmer hands then she.
She would snuggle up closer to me as we drove waiting on the car to warm up enough that we stopped shivering. Her perfume was absolutely intoxicating. I was barely able to think past our evenings together. I never wanted them to end. I wanted to go on forever with her beside me like we were attached. I ached to have her beside me when we were separated during the day. She in school, me working.
I remember her kisses were like electric shocks to my system. She didn’t just kiss, she exchanged soul chemistry when she kissed. She kissed with punctuation and bold statement. Her hands were used to hold my head in a fixed position so that I was impaled by her affection. I often emerged seeking air like a drowning non swimmer who had fallen overboard in the midst of the briny deep.
But nothing was more sweet than my hand in her lap, fingers in twined in a life grip. The skirt. The wool, white skirt with the bold black pattern. So practical, so necessary on those cold but dry nights on the plains.
Of course I remember her sweaters, as well. Her family had nice things, comfortable with money that was adequate for her to have nice clothes. So her sweaters seemed fashion designer to me. The sweater most often worn with the white wool skirt was all white with a turtle neck. She always wore the silver chain with the pendant I bought her around her neck and down her chest. Her short dark hair was always cut to perfection and always in place. Her dark eyes flashed when she smiled. And she smiled most all the time we were together.
It was so amazingly obvious she was in love with me. It was a mystery to me why, but I only questioned it one time, and quickly learned to not do that. I simply knew to accept her love while I had it and hope it never ended.
End, it did. I never saw the white skirt again. Never felt my hand in hers. We went different directions in life. Spiritually, geographically and sociably. I sometimes wonder if her mind ever goes back to those cold nights in that Dodge. As we left the restaurant or the movie or the play or the game and did our best to keep our teeth from chattering as we snuggled together. Two teenagers, madly in our first loves.
I remember. I wonder if she does. I wonder if she still wears the wool skirt? I bet it would still look great on her.
