“It doesn’t matter where I am. Or who I’m with.” I’d blurted out suddenly. 

”It’s just…the scenes keep playing in my head.”  What was to that point, held hostage and kept as personal observations now became a shared reality. 

“Suddenly she’s there.  I’m there.  We’re there.” 

Internal musings competed to be verbalized.  Insistent and loud though none were spoken.  Yet again, thoughts coalesced into a yearning I had little if no control over.  Remembrances so vivid I could almost touch the surroundings in the conjured memories. 

So much so that when the images took hold, I could feel the sun warm my skin as it did while sitting in the garden by the pool.  The wind blowing hair onto my face during the many strolls on the beach.  Hear the persistent and sometimes dull music playing in the background as we shopped for groceries.  The gushing air and houses that rushed past as she drove competently through the streets.  The tangy sweetness that spread in my mouth as I bit into a clementine as we leaned against the kitchen counter.

Within these moments the space I occupy is suffused with the lighting that characterized that of our house. Her smell pervades the air I breathe.  Her eyes shining as I feel her looking upon me. Her touch perceptibly close.  Her presence so…tangible.  Her hand in mine.  Her lips soft and moist when she lightly kissed my purlicue as I traced her jaw with my index finger and my thumb rested below her cheekbone. 

Shaking free of the now commonplace ruminations that captured me, I returned my attention to Kit who looked at me kindly. With obvious concern. 

We’d managed to maintain a relationship absent of Bette’s influence to some extent.  Her generous spirit affording me a confidant in moments of need. A role I tried to reciprocate.

Our conversation started lightly.  Catching up on each other’s lives.  My work and the challenges presented by her proprietary establishment.  The people who surrounded us within that context. 

Naturally, we progressed to the colorful impressions concerning our friends. The girls. Dictated by the discrepancy of age, she was in a way mother hen to the often-foolish chicks. Kit’s take on what was what – clucking her amusement and at times worry.