Rebecca and Jeff sit in the gazebo overlooking the shallow stream. Jeff takes out his pick and strums a soft ballad on his guitar. Rebecca closes her eyes and sways with the music, humming and moving her hands with the waves of the stream below.
He picks up the tempo, strumming harder—a crescendo of notes falling into place. She twirls her head with the melody.
Suddenly, the music stops. She feels thin, dry lips against her own. She opens her eyes and looks into his.
“I wish you were older,” he says.
I wish you weren’t married,” she says.
word count: 100
Second time. I think I’m getting better at this! This is part of Friday Fictioneers. Click the froggy icon below to add your link and read others.