Piece

"I may not actually miss you," she says as she reclined back to the sofa booth with a glass of white wine on her hand. This is her third glass in the last hour at the Pub. They have been there since the night was young and quiet until it grows into a wild, wise old self. Two past(s) are sitting side by side, connected with drink at the present. He rests his arm to the backrest, behind her neck. In the midst of contemporary upbeat music and distant conversations in the room, they are recollecting memories of the past over a bottle of Chardonnay, "Maybe I miss our story, how good we were, how, in love we were." She stops briefly as if memories of them flashes before her eyes, then continued, "I do miss you, but as part of the story." He listens carefully as he watches her expression changed. He cannot put his own thoughts whether to agree or disagree. All that he knows that he is there, with her, after so many seasons apart. She is staring at nothing. Her eyes are lost in her own words, and perhaps a little in the sips of bitter sweet wine. While his, lost in her reddened cheek. How much wine has she had? he thought. She then continued, "I know if we were to stay together, it would be like placing the wrong pieces of the puzzle, two pieces that don't fit together, doesn't matter how bad you tried to work it out." 

"But we were a part of a damn good puzzle." Words are pouring out of her heart, like droplets of rain from the grey clouds. She feels a stroke of summer breeze out of her loud retrospective thoughts almost as if the wind wipes her sweat off, removing an ounce of worry. We're the wrong piece of the puzzle? Or are we the perfect piece but belongs to a different puzzle? He murmured to himself. It gets difficult for him to pay attention to her as his stare keeps drifting to her wine-kissed lips, remembering how good it felt when it belong to his.