"Yesterday was dramatic," she says, "Today is ok."
Cool, not cold, dusk. The sun is flat and low. They shuffle away from the cemetery, talking about anything but why they’re there - droll, appropriate smiles as they stare at each other fondly and telescopically across the gulf of entire lives lived apart.
They were inseparable through high school - they used the word "when" like a promise and the word "if" like a threat. Everything was so certain. They didn’t know, their stories were all details.
"First children are like first loves," he says, sincerely, reaching out and back both. It’s vague, maybe forced, but she leaves it alone. She understands that he understands, and appreciates his kindness. "Later ones might be better - more interesting, or more mature - but not deeper." A first child, like a first love, teaches you a new emotional vocabulary that you cannot forget.
Abstractions of light and dark in the folds of their clothes. Silhouettes against the dying day’s ash gray sky.
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