He walked towards her as if holding together the edges of a wound.
A wound borne for 50 years.
She’d been beautiful then… walking down the aisle towards some other guy.
He approached her in his arthritic gait, the box in his pocket twitching like a thing alive.
Seeing him, she touched her face then dropped her hand, as if her skin pricked her fingers.
He hoped it wasn’t too late to make her feel beautiful again.
He went down on one knee though it hurt like hell.
It took him 40 years to realize… being second isn’t so bad.
© 2013 K.Z. Morano