We loved each other once. We were beautiful once. Before age and real responsibility and life got in the way. When you drove your cruiser and I still rode my horses. When you got jealous at all the guys who would look me up and down on Sunset Boulevard, and I would tease you for never wearing a proper shirt under your blazer. When these things were endearing and sweet. When we could still learn new things about each other, and everything was wonderful and exciting. Before your hair line started to recede. Before we stopped flirting. When we would find any excuse to touch- to be together. Before we found any reason to be on our own. When we were young and beautiful, and so very much in love. Before everything slowly turned sour.
The name of the cafe is unimportant. Its only significance is that it can hide us where eyes cannot see or so James tells me. I try to look nonchalant, observing the flow of people coming in and out. Each time the chime announces a new patron, I hold my breath, praying it’s not someone we know
( ... )
She: I am five parts Belarusian and three parts Estonian, with traces of Iceland and Ireland and India in my blood. I have French-thin bones. I have thick Spanish hair. My bloodline trickles down from Athena and Aphrodite, Minerva and Venus, Greece and Italy. I wear my skin like a cotton dress from Israel most days. At night, I wear it like a silk robe from Lebanon. The gypsy in me smooths out my voice while the Egyptian in me straightens my spine. When I grow up, I’ll be a bullfighter like my bisabuelo in Argentina. I'll be a great scientist like my oma in Germany. The world can claim me and I can claim the world and I am partly everyone’s to own.
He: Sounds good to me, sweetheart. As long as you are also partly mine.
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He: Sounds good to me, sweetheart. As long as you are also partly mine.
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