How do you put a life into context? What made it well lived? Who gets to decide that at the end, when it’s done?

He touched my hand in the parking lot; gently twining his fingers with mine. I was undone in that moment. Unable to remember a time when I hadn’t wanted that hand exactly there at exactly then.  It isn’t often we find out a thing that isn’t what we expected has turned into the thing we can’t imagine being without. I didn’t ask for this dish, but I’m also not sending it back to the kitchen.

She walks slowly into the dark room and leans against the wall close to his desk. They don’t touch; can’t and don’t need to. 

His breathing falls and rises and falls and rises. She wants to reach out and touch him; any part of him within reach, but she hesitates. As if sensing her need, even sleeping as deeply as he does, he breaches the vast space between them and wrapping his heavy arm around her he hauls her into an embrace that sends her soothed soul into the sweetness of slumber.

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About brandil79