Her bedroom walls were white and bare, except for one thing hanging above her bed. One of those reproductions of Starry Night. It's edges were worn and one of the corners had been ripped completel off. One time I asked her how long she'd had that picture hanging, unframed, above her bed. Years and years. That's what she told me. Nothing definitive. Just years and years.
All the things we did under that Starry Night... and I'm not just referring to sex, though we there was plenty of that. It seems like, back in those days, we spent all of our time in that bed, under those Stars. We watched movies together, read books together, played cards. So many Saturday mornings spent in each others arms, planning the rest of our lives. So many late, late nights spent whispering in each others ears. Telling of our dreams and fantasies. Confessing our sins but never looking for redemption and never receiving any judgement, only acceptance.
We were so young back then. It's been so many years, I wonder if that painting is still hanging above her bed. For some reason it makes me feel better thinking that it is...
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