moonlight etched its way through the branches and shone through her eyes. laying back against the old oak, he looked at her, replaying their best moments in his mind.
he remembers me differently, she thought.
and she was right. he remembered her delicately, his memories of her fluttering softly, like butterfly wings.
he was the first and last to see me that way.
since then, her life's gambit was Hemingway's iceberg theory. her only fear was that it has been so long since she adopted it.
maybe now my surface is all that exists.
he knew she was quieter now, more abrasive, with a strained a confidence. but like always, he saw her accurately, like some sort of emotional Superman, viewing every heartbreak and subsequent stronghold. it was time to make a decision. should he hold each memory at arm's length? let her go on with the life she created? or maybe, hold each butterfly gently cupped between to trembling palms, trying to peek at this momentary beauty. trying to see if that beauty really was so fleeting.
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