There, they sat on a bench with their pelvises faced toward one another . Her tonsils were throbbing from all of the conversation and her hands were exhausted from forming pictures in the air. Yes, with her fingers she painted scenes of her life in the future, traveling . With her hands she molded the faces of her children in the years to come . With her hands, she sketched her passions and fears into the air before his face . He listened and looked intently with soothed, understanding eyes .
When the motor of her mouth came to a sudden halt, he smiled in silence . He tilted his head in curiosity and remained quiet for another moment .
"What does your tattoo mean ?" he asked gently . . . as if trying to pry open the safe to her soul ...but soft enough not to set off the alarm .
"A ribbon for my mom ... she passed from Breast Cancer," she said with a stale tone . she wished she could have grabbed the words from the air and pumped them up . she felt a curious guilt for such a flat explanation .
he looked away and she turned her head to look for a cure ... a cure for the disease of discomfort .
"My mom did too," he said , focusing intensely on the wall ahead of him .
...they talked until the sun woke up the mockingbirds .