The Handkerchief

A cheerful morning sun, traffic humming up and down the street. The sharp thud of boots hitting the boardwalk and early risers running errands. Not a busy morning but a peaceful one of casual conversations with friends, waving across the street at an acquaintance from church. The day was new and untarnished.

She smiled at the sunlight on her face and the freshness of the morning; the day stood before her in all its promise. Something good might happen today.

Her swinging handbag slowed to a stop, hung limp at her side as her eyes found the figure walking her way. Or rather, walking on his own way, one that would bring him close to her in passing. She couldn't tell the color of his eyes but their depth was readily observable; they were alight. He walked with purpose, confidence, and a sure step. Here was a man who knew what he wanted out of life.

And in that moment, so did she. She fumbled quickly for the scrap of linen in her waistcoat and held it furtively as he neared. Their eyes met for a brief moment, he nodded politely, she gave a nervous smile and willed her body to obey her mind. The fabric fluttered from her fingers to the ground in front of him at the precise second they passed each other. He saw it, she knew he saw it. It took every ounce of her self-control to keep walking, not look back. She couldn't seem anxious or interested, not before he did.

Two steps past the fallen handkerchief, three steps. Four. Five. Six.

Her hands felt wet, she was holding her breath. She stopped walking, heard the sound of footsteps fading behind her. And she knew. Knew even without the weight in her chest or the way the boards on the walk melded together in her vision.

People were watching, she was sure of it. People were watching and judging, probably shaking their heads and maybe laughing at her. She couldn't let them see her disappointment, that would be weak.

She stiffened her neck, pushed back her shoulders and raised her eyes. She turned crisply on her heel and took six steps, bent to retrieve the scrap of linen and straightened again. She never looked around, never looked to see who was watching or what their reaction might be. The handkerchief safely back in her waistcoat, she continued on her way.

The tint of the sun had changed, it was darker now and held none of its newness from mere minutes before. The air was duller, the horizon farther away. A single tear escaped her eye but the shoulders never wavered. The head remained high, though the smile had become grim and a little sardonic. She'd have to wash the handkerchief when she got home.