People assured her that the years continued to be kind to her. Sometimes she even chose to believe it.
Her heart, she told herself (and anybody who would listen), was spent…it was done with the bittersweet games of passion and desire. This too was something she told herself that she believed…but, of course, she knew that to be a lie.
Memory conspired to keep her heart bright with hope and longing despite her cynical feints. She remembered, with humid affection, the soft lips and rough hands that had thrilled and soothed her in days gone by.
She remembered, with a dreamer’s abandon, terrifying and thrilling falls into the stormy seas of love, sinking and swimming hand in hand with others sinking into those same roiling, calming, mysterious and utterly familiar waters.
She remembered the smiles in heated whispers…the lightning in trembling lips…the gallant lies of gentlemen callers at the door of her hopeful heart.
The years continued to be kind to her…she hadn’t received the last Valentine of her journey…she remembered passion and expected it to return in due course…people assured her…she, more tentatively, assured herself. Sometimes she, demurely defiant, dared to believe it.
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