He drives over in his vintage convertible. The motor humming, the top down, calm accents on NPR drawling on. At a stoplight he runs his hand through his golden hair, the night air still. He parks, sitting in his car for a few moments, his body electric in anticipation. He knocks on her door with the strong noise of knuckles hitting wood.
The door opens, she leans against the doorframe. Her body long and lean, a perfect machine, evolved over so many years. He can’t help himself, his eyes wander down, mesmerized by how the cloth of her tee-shirt clings so perfectly, his thoughts are set on fire. She smirks at him, her eyes bright, as if she can read his thoughts. He smiles back, just another communication in their secret language. He reaches out to hug her, and as they embrace he notices her scent, so familiar and sweet.
She takes his hand, leading him into the darkness that engulfs them both. They turn a corner and her figure is illuminated. Another chapter in their well-worn novel of love to be put on a shelf somewhere someday, forgotten besides the wisps of memories of days past and dreams past.
