a moment

She pulled on her t-shirt, tucked it into her jeans, tossed her head this way and back, fluffing her hair, smiled into the mirror, licked her lips, one more time, then headed downstairs. He was waiting for her, and, God, she was in love. She was in love with him, with her life, with being in love. Her mother’d told her there’d be days like this and she’d nodded and hoped and, later, prayed for one. And, now, here it was – that kind of day. He didn’t see her when she reached the living room and she watched him looking away, far off, toward something that wasn’t visible, and she loved him even more and she said a quick prayer that went something like I-hope-I’m-not-dreaming, and she wasn’t, at all. He turned to her and looked in her eyes and said, “I love you,” and she felt a rush of happiness that she knew would never, again, come, like this, even if they lived for a million years, and even though there was a sadness attached to that, she knew that what he said was true and real and she took his hand, raised it to her lips and kissed it.