By Gregory Shipman.
She’s the last person I want see, but here she is, and likely just as surprised as I am.
“Hello,” she says as she reaches me.
“Hello,” I grunt in a voice now sour. I look up into eyes moist with pre-tears.
“I didn’t know you were back, Morgan.”
“About two months now.”
She covers her face with her hands. “How are you?” She lowers her hands and tears are evident. The face I remember so well distorted now by emotions.
“I’m making out,” I say. “The hard part is over… or so they say.”
She hugs herself as if for comfort. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know. I didn’t know about this until after.” She points at me and then quickly lowers her arm as she realizes how it must look. Her blonde hair is a perfect match for the loose sweater and designer jeans she’s wearing. Though four years have passed she still looks eighteen.
“I’m glad to hear that. In fact, deep down, I knew that.” I search for more words but there are none.
“I… I… I,” she stutters.
“It’s alright, Wanda. You had to follow your heart.”
“I wanted to wait like I promised, Morgan, but I fell in love with Mark and before I knew it, we were married.”
“I understand, Wanda.” I turn my wheelchair and push my way towards the elevator. Vietnam had taken many things from me. Wanda is just one of them.
GREG SHIPMAN is a native East Baltimorean, but now a Fairbanks, Alaska resident, Gregory K. Shipman has a day job which often extends into the evening hours. His passion is writing about the steamy, noir side of life… past, present and future. He has yet to earn a dime from his scribbles but has the satisfaction of knowing it’s all non-taxable. Greg is an active member of the on-line community, Writer’s Carnival, the Community Writer’s Group of Fairbanks, and a board member of The Fairbanks Drama Association. He lives a life of hardly quiet desperation with his pet laptop and unreliable Jeep. He enjoys Jazz, Blues, Theater and the occasional diabetic coma…