Ironing Out


Her love for him existed as a concept, a potential, for months. All through the winter and into springtime, she believed in it as a thing that could happen but no one could say for sure. Like how the polar ice caps might disappear, or like the winning ticket might be riding in someone’s pocket right now. At last, she fell in love with him properly next to the baggage carousel, waiting for her luggage to drop. It happened the moment she felt his wrinkled t-shirt, drab cotton beaten into softness by the spin cycle and smelling of dryer-sheet lemon. Her hands spread to span his ribs, glided up to clutch his shoulder blades, palms moving flat across his warm shirt. A quick and carefree gesture that smoothed the folds from cotton along with the hesitation from her heart. She drew away from that hug a different person than she went in, and spent their next four days together trying to find the words.


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