My Cardboard Balcony

Pirate's Gratitude by Belinda Roddie She doffed her hat to the hook-handed lieutenant, who eyed her cautiously, unwavering, as he bore more scars and had lost more limbs than most of her crew. The buccaneers stood looking on, drinking from barrels and praying that they'd avoid scurvy, their boots dredged in brine and their open wounds still bleeding from the barrage. But the lieutenant was letting them go, and the captain, smiling, waved a thank you as she returned to her ship and left a feather from her hat floating toward the officer's remaining, steel-like fingers.

What a cinematic touch to an otherwise mundane day. The way you ran to me in the rain outside the grocery store. The smell of chai tea still lingering on your barista apron, as you hastily wiped away coffee grounds from your blackened fingers. The way I stared at you from beneath my blue umbrella, tattered at the edges after my dog got his teeth on it. You kissed me in the rain. Only the kiss was kind of soggy, and we laughed too much.