The Dress She Never Wore — Part 10

That was a year ago. Daniel picks me up at the door on Fridays now. White roses, when the harbor shop has them. Coffee by the water. He tells it slow; I tell it straight.

Lily comes by the shop on Tuesdays with the baby asleep in the carrier, and the dress — her dress — hangs in my front window on a card in my handwriting: "The dress that waited."

Brides touch the glass. They ask if it’s for sale. I say no, that one’s spoken for — it just took the long way around. Then I pin their hems and wish them a shorter road.

Ana has coffee with us some Fridays. She and Daniel argue about boats like an old married pair themselves, and sometimes I catch her looking at us with her eyes full. Forgiven.

Last Friday he came early, and stood in my doorway with his hat in his hands, the way he did at twenty-two, at sixty-eight. "Rose," he said, "there’s a thing I need to ask properly — "

But that’s a story for another Friday. Some dresses wait forty years for their day. So do some hearts. Mine just needed the right hands to finish it — and this time, I finished it myself.

— THE END —

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