Photo Momemto12:00 Jun 20 2021
Times Read: 301
Photo Momemto
It was nineteen seventy-seven, or so and early in the evening. My friend had called and sat with me in my room, at the back of the house. We talked for hours and kissed.
She had lips that were thin yet plump and ached to be kissed, I had though many times since we had met at the college, a year previous.
My friend had short brown hair, green brown eyes that seemed to be both perpetually sad and enquiring, with an intelligence that easily matched my own.
She sat to my left on my old sofa, drinking coffee, wearing a green and white christmas sweater, with little christmas trees across the white: and bluejeans.
Rising I asked, “Can I take your photo please?”
Turning to me she had snapped, “Oh no, I'm not being one of your trophies in those...” She had indicated my series of photograph albums, on my bookshelf.
“Aw c'mon hun,” I'd entreated, my hand on her right thigh, “as if I would?”
Reluctantly she relented to my request, albeit her lower lip pouted.
She had sat to my left, coffe-mug in both hands, her right-profile to me, looking ahead, as I'd taken the shot.
Now years later she has been proven right, as her photograph sits in one of my small albums; a mere visual reminder of her thin plump lips, slim body and the lessons she had taught me.
The most important lesson being, 'listen'. That had inferred many things, the imperative being 'listen to one's partners needs,' which I'd listened to, taken onboard and followed through with, throughout much of my later life.
Thusly, whenever I open that particular orange coloured album and look at that photogragh of my friend, I always smile with very pleasant memories.
COMMENTS
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FeralHeart
21:03 Jun 20 2021
Good read...I love how vivid of pictures your writing makes