Pure Sap Condensed In A Story

She stood at the edge of the park, back to a tree, fingers twisting the strap of her bag. She saw children traipsing about on scooters, eating ice cream, throwing mud at each other, clouds like sails billowing in the sky, a flurry of pigeon feathers. She heard the grackles squawking above, young shouts, giggles from the young couple entwined on the bench to her right.

The text from the unavailable number said to meet at ‘the usual haunt’. She knew what that meant, even if the usual died six years ago. It seemed impossible, that he was still alive. He’d been declared missing in action. Since he’d worked intelligence, she doubted it for a while, but so much later, she let hope fade. Even now, she tried to deny hope existence, but she couldn’t ignore its spark in the back of her mind.

They looked at each other in precisely the same moment, as if a puppetmaster turned their heads in synch. She felt her other senses dull. The tang of citronella bug spray faded, the background traffic died to white noise. He stood in the middle of the park. Open. Exposed. An unlikely tactical position for someone so well trained. Or perhaps that was the point, to give her a clear view of everything around him before moving in. He knew her shades of paranoia six years ago. They hadn’t changed. If anything, they’d darkened.

She stood there, barely breathing, taking him in. All six-feet and two-inches of lean muscle, creases around his eyes from laughter and loss, dark hair shaved close, sleeves rolled, chocolate eyes rich and swirling with all emotion he kept from his face.

He took a step towards her as she took two towards him. She didn’t want to believe her eyes. It couldn’t be real. She had to be ensconced in her bed, under the influence of Nyquil or something stronger. Another step. Two more. She found her breaths grounding, growing shallow. They stood arm’s-length away, in the centre of the park, the birds chirping and children shouting.

She surprised herself by finding her voice, or a remnant of it. “You – you can’t be real.”

“But I am,” he said.

His face was expressionless, the model of a poker player, but she could see the emotions roiling in his eyes. She looked him over once more. Black lace-up shoes, a pair of black jeans, an off-white dress shirt rolled past his elbows to reveal muscled forearms. The vine tattoo snaked around his left arm, ending at the wrist. No one could fake all the details like that. Brooke held one hand over her mouth. Her whisper shook. “I want to believe it.”

He held out his hand. She held her breath. She thought he might have swept her into a hug, at which she might have panicked. Would have. Physical touch spooked her these days. But no, one hand, palm up, steady, capable fingers tipped toward the sky. The same gesture she’d seem him make toward a dozen frightened horses, when they rode.

After a moment, she held out her hand the opposite way, palm down. She inched it forward, until the tips of their fingers touched. An electric shock buzzed through her arm, into her spine. She slid her fingers onto his, tiny and white against solid and tan. He closed his fingers gently around hers. Then she was leaning into his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, feeling the crisp linen of his shirt against her skin. It smelled right, clean and sharp, pine and cedar cologne.

“God, I missed you,” he said into her hair, voice rough.

She closed her eyes and wrapped both arms around his waist, feeling his encircle her back. “You have no idea,” she whispered.