Yesterday I went to lunch with a friend. As I pulled into the parking lot, I had to wait as a couple of pedestrians crossed my path. It was a long wait as they were quite aged and slow-going.
She was tiny. I surmised her build had diminished over time and she took dainty steps, smaller than even a “proper” lady should take. Her short-cropped mane of white shimmered in the brilliant noonday sun.
Her dashing beau was stooped with age and leaning heavily upon the cane gripped by his left hand. His right arm was folded up with his right hand placed against his midline so that his lady could place her hand through the crook of his arm. It seemed as though they had walked this way for lifetimes, back when they stood tall and proud and her hand was placed there as a show of attachment, rather than to lend one another strength.
Their strained progress was painful to watch as I imagined them in their younger, spry years. And my breath caught in my chest as she smiled coyly up at him as he escorted her to the driver’s side of the car and opened the door for her to get in to drive. Then, ever so slowly, he traversed the route around the back of the car to get in to the passenger’s side.
Did I see him, no longer the man he once was, sighing as he slid into his space beside her?