Our exchange was as brief as it was that time ago, but, as then, what wasn’t said dwarfs the power of what either of us ever uttered.

A woman of few words. A man of fewer words. Little has changed. We are who we were—only there’s a manuscript’s worth of untolds we’ve lived since. If I had begun to read yours, Sonia, it somehow ended at the second page, first sentence. The book was taken away seemingly moments after it was shared. I hadn’t dog-eared a single corner.

Was probably me.

That smile resurfaced like a college girl in grade school once again. It resurfaced across your artist-rendered face like an after-the-rain spectrum against a jealous sky. Every bit as luscious and fragrant and refreshing as successive decades ago.

Wine truly does enhance, doesn’t it?

Detroit, I remember. Yes, I do. And across the border my own origins are mapped. I recall: The strands of hair dangling like a partial veil over your eye as you scribbled for me in your driver’s seat. Like yesterday? No, more like yesterhour that moment ago.

Perhaps you wanted to know, to learn, a little more. Did you? I did. If only . . . .

Probably me.

An elder once said a man doesn’t know what he’s doing ‘til his fourth decade. The woman, he said, matures sooner—and therein lies her inherent advantage. I won’t argue that.

But what if she peaks too soon? No one ever posited that one to the sage.

You haven’t peaked prematurely. I’d say your unfolding is the result of near-perfect timing. So gracious has it been to you.

Congratulations on the recent milestone. Upon you it apparently wears well.

God keep you, Sonia.

Tender are my thoughts,
Rg2

_______________________

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Pamper the woman . . . before she drives away. -Rg2

© 2016 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®