Not in this Story

It starts with a sentence.

It starts with a moment.

It could be the way the bright early morning sunlight catches in her hair when she looks down at the sliver of ground that lies between the two of them. It could be the way he turns and walks away, leaving her alone, her hand making futile gestures of regret to his back as she waits for him to change his mind, turn around and come back. He never does turn around though, not in this story.

At that moment, you do not know if this is the beginning or end of their story, or just a moment somewhere in-between. You do not even know if it is their story, they could be merely two incidental characters, some stop off; a waypoint in the trail the story will leave behind it.

It may not even be a story at all. It could be just one of those incidents that lies there on the page, refusing to go forward into some new world that lies waiting somewhere down the page, or to grow some long back story that leads to this moment. You do not know their names, their ages, what they do with their time or anything about them while this moment waits for some story to grow around it.

You do not even know where they are standing: on some deserted beach, a lonely hilltop, a busy street or some railway station waiting for the train that will carry them apart for the first or last time.

All you know is the feel of her skin on his fingertips and the way that this moment reminds you of so many other times, and what came before those times and what came after them and how you hope, this time, that it will be different to all of those other times.