Just Thinking of You
Just something I wrote while listening to jazz on a long weekend :)
1936
The band played a slow waltz; feminine hands rested on broad shoulders, embraced by the fingertips with each of their other hands. Her cheek resting upon his chest while he leaned down, singing along with the lyrics; a whisper of warm breath at her ears, the rumble from his chest tickling her cheeks. ‘You’re lovely, never ever change. Keep that breathless charm…’
“You know, you’re a terrible singer,” she giggled, her nose wrinkling as she smiled.
He stared back stunned by her beauty, “You look wonderful, tonight.”
1940
One year at war and two years of marriage later, the sound of gunfire raged through the night in the trenches. No one could sleep for fear consumed them, wondering if they were to survive till dawns break. The smell of sulfur was strong; violent screams of agony could be heard in the distance. The world was so cold to him now, it seemed that hell itself had frozen over. He closed his eyes tight, humming their song, thinking of her and her warm smile. For a moment, amongst the despair, he was back with her in his arms, finding a warm glow enveloping his heart. It was the only thing he had to hold onto now; he needed her now more than ever.
1945
Reunited at last; sharing a late picnic underneath a wise, knotted elm, sheltering them from the rest of the world.
‘She looks more beautiful the way she looks tonight than since the last I saw her,’ he thought (but she’s always been the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen). Her pale skin was illuminated brightly in the moonlight, and her teeth shone as she smiled, tiny wrinkles at her eyes; they hadn’t been there before.
So many years apart and the only thing he said all night was ‘I love you.’ Time had been working against them, but now, in their favour.
2006
Seventy years after that first date, the record player was nothing but the scratchy sound of the needle on vinyl. He sat in the large chair beside the player, withered fingers unable to bring themselves to pull the needle off the record. Instead, they rested upon the arm of the chair, twitching, yearning. He stared into the space, into Her kitchen. Their kitchen. A place where a lifetime ago (it seemed), he could watch her smiling, a smile which never changed even though she did. He found himself singing again, ‘Just thinking of you and the way you look tonight.’
She wasn’t in his arms, as he’d thought; just a ghost feeling of her figure fitted closely with his, his fingers enveloping her hand once again. It was a feeling that was beginning to fade now, it had been so long, but he could still hear her voice as clear as day; for him she really had been there, beside him. Now, alone in the room, alone in the world, he smiled, he heard her breathy whisper, “You’re still a terrible singer.”