My steps quicken as I turn the corner.
The town plaza is filled with people, as it always is. But I spot her at once. She is standing next to the statue of Bobby Wilson, who ever Bobby Wilson was.
He must have been an important man at his time to have a statue erected in his honor. Today no one knows who Bobby Wilson was or why he was so important.
Angie has her back turned to me, waiting for me to surprise her. But surprising Angie is not easy,,she always seems to know when I am close.
"I have been waiting for you, waiting for a long time, a whole long week, my love."
I agree, "A whole week is much too long."
We walk again the familiar walk, the walk through deserted back alleys. We don't dare walk the streets to my aunt's garden. Walking back alleys we can hold hands.
I see her eyes getting misty as I lift my arm and hand her the single red rose I had been holding in my left hand.
She is quiet. She holds the rose in her hand and looks at it. Her eyes are moist and shine brighter than usual. I say nothing; I let the red of the rose speak of my love for her.
She gingerly puts the rose down on the bench and we embrace. Our lips find each other, softly and feathery at first. I drink in the intoxicating fragrance of her skin and my heart beats like a drum in my chest.
Her soft body tries to melt into mine as our kisses become more urgent. The hunger for each other finally ebbs and we sit down on the bench.
Our hands magically find each other again and we snuggle close to each other. We don't feel like talking, we just want to enjoy each other's closeness.
Then she lets go of my hand and bends over and lays her head in my lap. I stroke her hair. I let my finger trace circles on her forehead. From there my finger slides down to the tip of her nose, and when my finger slightly traces the outline of her lips I can feel her shiver.
When she sits up again I tell her about dad. "That Angie sure is a sweet, lovable girl. I would love it if she would visit us more often."
And mom agrees. "I'm happy when I see the two sitting on the couch close together, maybe sometimes a tad too close together."
Angie picks up the rose and then stops in midair. She turns to me and her face is overflowing with smiles.
"The talks te,"she says. Our life should always be like her. Always keep the red flower of love on top and leave the thorns a distance away down below.
We leave the garden and we know that we will never walk the alleys again. We are holding hands as we walk down the street to where I live. Mom is in the living room and we enter, still holding hands, Angie carrying the rose in her left.
"You should pay more attention to the way you look," mom chides me. "Your lipstick is smeared".
Then she sees us holding hands and gets ready to say more, instead she watches Angie gently laying a dark red rose in her lap.
"It's a talking rose," I say. "It talks to Angie." I don't tell her more.
Angie and I turn and sit down on the couch in front of mom, and our hands find each other again.
Please let me know what you think about this story
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