Fifty Years

One of the things I enjoy about creative contests is that they focus you to write something within a constraint - almost like putting together a puzzle. This piece was written as “a love story without using the word love, in under 300 words.”

Left on Morrison. Past the “going out of business” sign that’s been hanging in the music store for years.

I know the line before Earl says it. “Half off violins. Maybe I oughta pick it up again.”

I remember when we met fifty years ago. First violin was doing a summer abroad, so I moved up and he slotted in. Friend of the cellist. His fingers were a bit too stubby for the fast passages, but he had a decent bow.

Right on Twelfth.

“Clara, wanna go to the Rose Festival Saturday?” That’s how he asked me out, simple and direct.

My favorite float didn’t have any crazy themes. It was adorned with Oregolds, one of the new roses that year. The deep yellow petals were brighter than the pinks and reds dotting the other floats. Earl surprised me with a bouquet from one of the vendors.

Left on Glisan.

Summer was a whirlwind. Drive-in movies. Disco at the Turquoise Room.

Right before our last performance at Peninsula Park, Earl kissed me – a small peck on the lips. Completely unexpected.

We pull up to our restaurant. Maurice welcomes us at the host stand, grabbing two menus even though it’s not necessary.

“First time dining with us?” The joke gets a laugh from Earl every time.

I pause to run my hand over the tear on the back of our booth as we approach. Maurice keeps walking. I shoot a glance at Earl, but he follows without missing a beat.

A quartet strikes up a performance as we enter the reserved room in back. Yellow petals cover a white tablecloth while a bottle of champagne sweats in a bucket of ice.

“What is this, Earl? My birthday isn’t until November.”

“It’s the fiftieth anniversary of our first kiss.”

I enjoyed exploring how much affection can live in a route Earl and Clara traveled for decades, or in a bouquet of yellow roses. Sometimes these small details carry more than any specific word can.

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