Uvi Poznansky: The flash of her gold earring

I leaned over the railing of the pier, and for a second hoped he would see me. How could he not, with my hair flaming red, and blowing, long and wild, in the winter wind, which swept across the divide?

Now I could see the girl sitting there, opposite him. She raised her glass and clinked it against his, then cuddled up to him, like, to whisper something up close, in his ear.

I don’t hardly know if there was something odd with the air, which stirred past me with cloud after cloud of salty mist; or the sheet of glass over there, which must have had some flaws all over it; or the mirror image of sunset, which buckled out of shape, in and out of the flaws; or else, was it the film of tears, which formed in my eyes; or the sorrow, which came in like a tide, to wash over me—but in a blink, everything blurred.

Everything started swimming in front of me: like, the shadow of her little black dress, the flash of her gold earring, even the blond streaks in her hair. All of them things, which lived on the other side of the layers—the layer of mist, and of glass, and flaws, tears, wash—they all rippled a bit and then, settled into a haze.

I blinked again and at once, things went back to the way things should be—except that the girl was still there, by his side, where I should have been, had I not left him.