romance Archives · Blue Fern Press

At First Sight

They met Christmas Day at PDX. Ed played ragtime on the Steinway. Al sidled up to do a soft shoe. They untied their bowties over craft beer.

It’s all about the clawfoot tub. Ted loved her place. So he married her. They had kids. She died at 90. He won’t let them sell at any price.

The thwack of typewriter keys fills the repair shop. The owner is a beaut, like his vintage machines. Ann takes him and a Smith Corona home.

There’s no wind today. Mia plays the chimes herself. Mark watches her hands ring the strands of Depression glass. It’s better than a breeze.

The pixie cut girl flashed a smile and a sign, ‘Typewriter Troubadour.’ The French twist woman gave $5 for one manually typed word, ‘Hello.’

John and Luke went to church when visiting Alabama, because they’re church-goers. They entered holding hands and shared a Bible. That’s all.

Mac has never seen the ocean. Alia has never seen a cow. They meet on Route 66. She’s having coffee late. He’s up early. Hello dawns slowly.

The only Spanish he knows, he learned on I Love Lucy. The only English she knows, she learned from her kids. Silently, they learn the tango.

A young couple stops at the corner, gazing at the San Francisco skyline. Ellen and Bill kissed at that corner. This couple snaps a picture.

The man said her trilby looked silly on a woman. Guys usually stared at her wheelchair, not her hat. She smiled. He grinned. It was a start.

In the mirror, Liv saw a crinkled, aging woman. Nathan said he saw a clever brow, curious eyes, and a kaleidoscopic face. He wasn’t lying.

Helen lived in a houseboat on a creek off a bay. A century-old drawbridge rose whenever Jack sailed in to see her. It made her boat shimmy.

They were married by an insurance salesman. She wore red hot pants. There are no pictures, except those their eyes have shared for 42 years.

He’s a stroke of mixed-hue blues. She’s a brush of bright pinks. Where they join, one with the other, they’re a streak of mercurial violet.

He juggles in the rain, says ‘bing’ as a verb, and wears suspenders. He takes Cate to karaoke. She discovers this Portlander sings falsetto.

Chestnut petals drifted like snow. Parisian parakeets sat outside in brass cages. Because the two were together, they know that this was so.

Vic wore black shoes. Kay wore white gloves. He was told to extend his hand. She was told to take it. That was 1964. They’re still waltzing.

Edie’s bud vase is never empty. Ed sees to that. He gave it to her in 1952. On their 60th anniversary, she gives him 5 dozen Emperor tulips.