by V Rose Dahrke
He only saw it once, one night at a bar in late August. She had been listening to her husband talk, nodding and sipping her beer, when he arrived. Her eyes never strayed but a sudden flash of color lit her cheeks, its contrast lending a star’s brightness to her eyes for a single guilty instant. As he crossed the room she rested her chin in her hand and cocked her head to one side, letting her fingers hide one half of the blush and a ripple of her hair the other. She cleared her throat, blinked twice, and set her complexion right again. Oblivious, her husband made some joke; she laughed. When he reached their table, she said “There you are” with boredom that bordered on disdain.
After all this time, that was more than enough for him.
Written in response to Trifecta: Week Seventy-Three.