Alison, lines in her face, thick glasses, plastic frames.
Trying to both entertain and feed her child in one of the chicken themed fast food restaurants.
Getting the child to giggle as she pulls faces, makes motions with her hands, and then gets them to take bites of their nuggets.
Simple little thing, common for so long, in these dying days of empire.
Alison, turns and sees me, smiles brightly, waves at me.
I smile back, and give her a quick and taut salute.
(She had served in the Army, before she married and had her kids, hadn't she?)
I go to her table and we chat while her little one tries to climb all over her, demand her attention.
Alison, is happy to see me, we were friends and both loved The Cure back in high school.
Forensics too, many cosmic conversations on the bus rides back from Middle Tennessee tournaments.
Her little one can no longer be ignored, and we say our goodbyes, and the child burrows into his mother's arms.
Despite the lines, the glasses, the dulled and greying hair, I still see the young woman she had been, tender and radiating light.
Is there anything left in me, of the young man she, and loved?
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