An Adventure Allotted
I was vacationing with my parents in France, somewhere along the sea. You were riding a bicycle - no hands! - when we spotted one another on the promenade. Your hair was dark and curly and thick, not entirely unlike mine. Even from a distance, I swear I could see that your eyes were blue.
Your coloring was unique, surely, but it was your smile that caught my attention. We looked at each other, back and forth, until finally, you waved.
Up and down the water's edge you rode, waving and smiling at me with carefree abandon as I hid my giggles from my shambling, distracted parents.
I can't quite recall what ended it; maybe we ducked into a cafe or a museum, or maybe even the metro. But I know I lost you, and I know you're still with me, even now. When I think about the man I ultimately want to be with, I have an evergreen image in my head.
Only now, as I write this letter that you'll never read, do I realize that it's you.
The nurtured cynic in me feels certain that we would've broken apart swiftly and brutally. There is a touch of romance in me left, though, and it enjoys brief but fiery re-ignition every time I see someone who reminds me of you.
I recall always wishing for an exciting adventure on holiday - you know, the kind that ties up with true love and happily ever afters. But it appears I've had my lasting allotment, and I did not even have the good sense to appreciate it in full. I've found that lack of good sense to be pervasive in my life (or at least not exclusive to affairs of the heart), but in no volume of my experience has this deficit been so tragic as in the moment when I lost you.
Copyright Alexandra Lucas 2016