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This Is A Perfect Moment

The boy and girl sit in a coffee shop, deep in the evening, somewhere in some northern city, swarms of the restless whooshing past, and he, this boy, looks out the foggy window glass and says, "This is a perfect moment," and the girl asks, "Perfect?" and the boy — considering the light snow coating the pavement, the warmth of his paper cup, the shifting purple sky — says again, "Yes, perfect," but she, this wide-eyed Whitman reader, a poetry student, stares into her black coffee, thinking instead that perfect is the summer sun burning overhead, or a lake in the woods, or any place quieter than the city, not knowing that years later, years after this boy has left her for a Philosophy professor who'll tell him, on the peak of Mount Katahdin, to live for the rush of the present moment, she, this poetess, will swing by a table at the same café, holding a dish rag, and pause after finding a perfect moment of her own: on the window, a heart and the words "Forgive me," were traced into a fading breath.

Story by:

Greg Letellier

6 November 2014