Raspberry Beret

She sat on the park bench, freshly painted in mint with brass handles made handsome by the patina of weather and time. Her peach shaped lips hummed a song full of words with a mystical perch as she watched a squirrel negotiate the limb of a wise old oak tree whose stories travailed the living and the dead.

The sun lowered itself in a magnificent bow, an anguished daily cry playing out across a nervous jumble of clouds that very much resembled a pile of used laundry. The indigo spill of night began to drip across a canvas made of ocher, its theater of war spoke of seasons fighting for their chance at forever. As if on cue, a lonesome breeze brushed at her face with tiny pin pricks of invisible frost, chasing away the blanket of warmth that had been gifted her by the ancient sun moments earlier.

Poetry came easy to her most times, but not this one. She reckoned it was because her heart was too full and her body was too anxious and her soul was reaching . . recklessly, uncertainly, sublimely, reaching. Time was shedding itself to her now as a solitary tear held ransom on her ivory cheek, as if the vesper of a long forgotten star whose body was small but whose purpose was mightier than Venus itself.

Words of a poem that was busy never getting born presented themselves like splinters as her fingers shook in anticipation. She laughed at the thought that a boy could have this effect on her. But he did. The particulars of him, when broken down into a mathematical formula, did not equate with white picket fences, two and a half children and a hallway teeming with chronological snapshots. He was very much a here and now proposition, but it didn’t matter because to her way of thinking, tomorrows were too perfect to be interesting. She wanted, no . . she demanded to be spellbound by something, if only for a moment. And that, he supplied.

She checked the time. He would be here soon, riding up on his small change chariot built of chrome and curse words. He would set his eyes on her, and in the process thieve every last retrievable part of the girl she was walking away from. The language he would carry on his tongue would be equal parts Longfellow and fire. And then she would hop on and then they would take a ride up to old man Johnson’s farm, to the secret lair he had constructed inside a barn.

They would fall in love for a moment’s time, and no more than that. And really, what else was there to life but the moments? The ones you would not trade for all the promises of Solomon. The ones that made you feel as if the world made the most sense of all when served in small slices.

Some day, a million years from now, she imagined looking back on the moment they would paint across that loft and she would smile the smile of an innocent virgin girl; the one with pretty wishes in her painted fingernails and all those jukebox dreams in her restless bones. She would look back in fond remembrance of how determined she had been to make him remember her. In the wherever after of his future, he would buy time for her cranberry and red wine lips and the poetry they made. And he would paint a raging storm with that name.

Hers.

25 thoughts on “Raspberry Beret

  1. B,

    This is sublime. You know I love when you write like this. Creating a whole story inspired by a song but told from her perspective, to boot? Delicious.

    Who wouldn’t want to fall in love for that one special moment? A stolen timeless moment by Old Man Johnson’s Farm… You’ve painted such a picture that I can see it in my mind’s eye.

    Such a fine writer you are…

    Q

    Liked by 1 person

    • Q

      Delicious is a really scrumptious way of describing this. And it makes my sit down with this character . . worth it! And yes, I wanted her voice to play the lead. After all this time, eh? We never did hear from her and all we were getting was HIS story. And I mean, Prince is legend and all . . but you know how boys talk.

      Right?

      The moment. Encapsulated in a three minute song. I had to cull between those lines, in curls-speak.

      I know the song by heart- we all do- so it wasn’t hard to imagine.

      MUAH!

      B

      Liked by 1 person

      • It was a great sit down. I loved that you gave us her side of things. Boys do. But then, so do girls – of course, if you think of Sandy and Danny, you know their stories don’t come close to each other’s 😉

        Absolutely. Hell, I want to mosey on down there…

        The moment is one for the memory books.

        As do I. So I was easily transported down your lane…

        MWAH!

        Liked by 1 person

        • Of course they don’t, they hardly every do, do they?

          I was intrigued at the idea of placing this story in her POV since we never did get her side of things.

          Mosey huh? You Canadian chicks and your twang.

          It is . . was . . will be.

          Were ya now? I dig that, I dig that very much.

          MUAH!

          Liked by 1 person

          • Hardly ever.

            I loved that you did!

            We twang? I guess we do… though were I a bettin’ woman, I’d be rather certain it is a ‘Murican word… I’ll have to check.

            Sweet.

            I was. Truly.

            MWAH!

            Like

          • K. I had to go check…
            Where did the word mosey come from?
            The verb mosey is early-1800’s American slang with an uncertain origin. Some experts think it comes from the British slang mose, “to go about in a dull, stupid way,” while others see a connection to the Spanish vamos, or “let us go.”

            Liked by 1 person

          • There you go again, putting in the roadwork to figure out dem words, little lady. 😉

            And yanno . . I always knew it was a cool word. And that it evoked all sorts of Western favorites. And that it’s the closest I’ve come, or ever will come, to wearing a cowboy hat.

            But I never knew anything of its origin. And if I were to hedge a guess, I would say it had more Spanish than Brit. But that’s just me.

            Like

  2. So nice to get the other side of the story, pilgrim. You did a masterful job here. I loved several lines but the one that stuck, “As if on cue, a lonesome breeze brushed at her face with tiny pin pricks of invisible frost, chasing away the blanket of warmth that had been gifted her by the ancient sun moments earlier.” You da man.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Well
    Done
    Too three takeaways:
    The magnificent bow the sun made.
    The showing the time passed with saying a million years
    And the way you led us to “the poetry they made” and the Prince song

    Liked by 1 person

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