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A Dreamscapes Story
by Alicia VanNoy Call
He weaves between gravestones, the bottle hanging half-empty from his fingers. New-risen moon tracks its path through a coal-dark sky. Cast shadows spread under branches. The grass breathes out a dark green scent under his bare feet. He lifts the bottle, but doesn't drink. Rum sloshes. Checking his watch, he squints across the rows. He can see her leaning in the mausoleum doorway and he jogs across the last stretch of lawn, stops five feet away.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” she raises one hand. Smiles.
He climbs the six steps. Drops his shoes. She leans forward. The kiss brushes, like a fluttering moth against his cheek, barely there. He reaches for her – an old habit. She steps back.
She is thin. Thinner than he remembers. Her dress lifts in the midnight breeze, the tiny pattern of roses shifting around her legs. Against the stone stair, her feet are white on white. She tucks her black hair behind one shoulder.
He sits next to his shoes. The bottle clinks.
“Nice night.” He looks at the moon: radiant, full, speckled like an egg. “Nice moon.” He takes a swig.
He lets the rum sit in his mouth, extends the bottle out to her. The swallow of liquid burns down his throat.
She shakes her head, sits next to him.
“You look nice,” she says.
He plucks at his tuxedo jacket. The black tie hangs loose around his collar.
“I had an afternoon wedding,” he says.
“How was it?”
He can feel her next to him. Even with his eyes closed, he would know she was there. His pant legs are damp. He shrugs.
“You know. Dancing, drinking, covers of 80's rock ballads. The best man threw up all over the restroom. I think he's in love with the bride.”
She laughs. A low sound. “How will that turn out do you think?”
He looks at her. She looks at the moon.
“Who knows,” he says. “Life is messy.”
“And beautiful,” she says.
He tips the bottle again. “Sure.” He doesn't sound convinced...
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