Writing Prompt Wednesday – “Affection”

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Black and White by IMustBeDead

It was finally Sunday again. The week always seemed to drag on, making the wait all the worse, as if it were a month in-between each visit versus a few days. But it was finally Sunday again. The day Yasmin got to see her again, framed by fading sunlight with the music of waves to dance to.

At about six p.m. they pulled into the small gravel parking lot, got out of the car and walked the short way to the small cliff that was their rendezvous point. This time of year, the sun would be close to setting by about six o’clock, a cool breeze coming off the sea to ruffle their hair and redden their cheeks.

Every Sunday, for what seemed like so long now but not long enough, in Yasmin’s opinion, they would come to this cliff they had found by chance and sit on the edge, staring out into the horizon and watching the sun slowly descend. Sometimes they talked, sometimes it was comfortable silence. There was more talking now than there used to be, since they were separated during the week, and so this was the time Yasmin and Clara would catch up. They talked of family, new friends, college, and how much they missed each other. But they were close enough to home that they could both return every weekend, and see this Sunday sunset together.

Clara happily skipped the last few steps to the cliff’s edge, breathing deep of the sea air and letting it out in a gust of relief. Yasmin was still close to the water, even when away at school, but Clara was further inland. These weekly trips to their cliff were a reunion for not only the girls, but also for Clara and the sea. Her home away from home.

“Good to be back,” she said, her traditional beginning every Sunday evening. The sea seemed to crash harder into the cliff as if to say hello in return. Yasmin came to stand a step behind Clara, wary of the edge even after all this time, as Clara stretched and raised her arms over her head.

And as Clara raised her arms skyward so too did the waves rise to meet them, as if she had magicked them upward into a roiling, seething mass. Perhaps she had—it couldn’t just be Yasmin, imagining the mystical nature of her movements, the wickedness of her smile as Clara turned to her, beckoning to join her at the cliffs edge. But how wicked could it possibly be when her gentle hand took Yasmin’s own, warming it with the heat and glow of her endless supply of soothing energy?

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