Page 69 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. Iv #8

She knows, she has to know, how having seen her on the edge like that was tearing him apart.
her pocket and takes back out Gabe’s stone. Her stone. “I was trying to squeeze it into dust.”
She doesn’t remember when last she saw him cry, and this time it is the woman who takes hold of the man’s shoulders. She tries to sway him side to side, but he remains still. “C’mon Gabe, your hands on my waist, we’ll just slow dance.”
He cups his bare hand on top of hers, with the little rock between them. “But it didn’t work, did it.” He lifts his hand off hers as if opening an oys- ter shell – the pebble lies there like a pearl, and she wonders if they could get back to marveling at the luck of having the other rustling beneath the same bed sheet at dawn. She doesn’t know
They shuffle stiffly side to side, like seventh graders at a dance with partners of the opposite sex for the first time. Randal comes back whim- pering without the snowball, and jumps against them, as if disturbed by this strange behavior.
if she is up to it, or if she’d make another trip
up the cliff trail to feel the pull of big air. With one hand she returns the stone to the warmth of her pocket. The other mittened one she wraps around his waist, and they continue home, trudge a new path through the untouched snow. They disappear around the corner.
He pulls her in; she didn’t think he would. And here she is in his arms, but at the same time, she is back up on the cliff up, looking down on them. This isn’t exactly an apology, maybe bet- ter, but she can’t feel it yet. She digs deep into
Lewis’ short stories have appeared in R.KV.R.Y. Quarterly, Persimmon Tree, Lost Lake Folk Opera Magazine, Trapeze, Valley Voice and a story collection, Frank Walsh’s Kitchen and Other Stories.
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Burst
pastel on paper 38” x 50” by Patricia Russac