I was sitting in the cafe when I saw them --
Sitting by the hazy window, hands clenched across the table with only a copy of "The Great Gatsby" between them.
They were transfixed, as was I.
He followed every word she mouthed, carefully studying her lips and nodding in accordance.
Every now and then his thumb would quickly circle over hers; a comforting gesture.
Although the day was overcast, a single shard of light gleamed off of her thin, simple wedding band.
A golden loop of eternity.
He drank his coffee heartily, sans cream, and warmed his hands with the mug.
Looking pensively out the window, he hastily jotted something down in pen and stowed the notebook back in his pocket.
It could've been a short sonnet, a thought, a yearning --
I still wonder.
And then he looked back to her, eyes alive and afire with ardor.
She glanced up from her dainty teacup coyly, smiling.
He couldn't be a day over 80.
And she, 75.
This F. Scott Fitzgerald-fueled romance captivated me, absorbed me, inspired me.
It's the words that are the kindling, the basis for the fire.
It's the words that got them,
And will get me.
After one last glance, I pull out my own notebook,
Jotting down the words I am waiting, in earnest, to hear.
And then I leave, boots plodding through the puddles,
And wonder if there's any place for fire in the rain.