Six years and six minutes.

The air was warm. Light fluttered through the blinds.

The neighbors’ kids were skipping in the street. Hollering. Chuckling. Their elation trickled between our conversations. The soundtrack of our Sunday afternoons.

Sitting with bellies on the bed, we played cards in my bedroom. A weekly tradition.

Biting her bottom lip, she moves her gaze between her hand and the played cards. Wiggling her nose. Elevating her eyebrows. She glances at me. She’s confident.

My turn.

She grips her cards, keeping her secrets safe. She wants to win. I want to win. It’s how we loved. Friend or foe. No holding back.

She wins again. It’s getting late. We say goodbye, just like before. Yet long after we part ways, this farewell echoes in my minds chambers.

During our embrace, I note the softness in her eyes. The glow of the sun fills the outlines of her smile. Even then, it felt special. Like I had traveled to a time beyond time. What life would be like when we no longer had our looks or our smarts. Only our faith in each other.

I felt warm. My eyelids became too heavy to open. I wanted to see it this way forever.

I still do.