The Bench

We sat on a bench that we found in the desert, its old paint peeling, watching the cloud move past. A slight breeze drifted past, bringing with it the smell of the dusty planes. The powdery clouds drifted past lazily, forming themselves into shapes that can’t be recognized. “What does that one look like?” she said turning her face to look at me, her eyes twinkling. “A cloud” I said looking down at her and smiling mischievously. “Come on,” she said punching me in the arm “you’re not even trying.” “I am too. Do you even know what a cloud is supposed to look like?” “No” she answered eager to debate “Well I do. So there” For good measure I stuck out my tongue.  She followed suit, and before long we were laughing and giggling like school children. As I stood to escort her back to the car my foot caught on a root protruding from the dusty soil, I fell, face first into a bush. Still sitting on the old bench gales of laughter shook her body. I can still taste the small green leaves and embarrassment, while her tinkling laughter still rings in my ears. When we got to the car I opened the door right when a gust of wind blew down the road. Dust got everywhere, looking over her hair was full of it, each piece sparkling in the sun, gleaming like an ember. How did I ever get this lucky, she really is spectacular.