The Touch of his Hand
“Are you coming, my dear?”
Millie looked up at the sound of his voice. Tommy stood in the doorway, his hand outstretched, waiting for hers to join it.
She still remembered the first time their hands had touched, all those years ago. She’d shyly slid her fingers into his as they’d walked into the picture house – barely believing the handsome boy had chosen her. He’d squeezed her hand and given a flirtatious wink, setting her heart aflutter. That had been their first date. Many more had soon followed.
The touch of his hand had swiftly become the most important thing in her life: his caress set her senses alight; his support carried her through the hardest days. When his long fingers had slid the ring, the symbol of their devotion, onto her own, she’d known she was complete.
His death had left her adrift.
She’d simply marked time the since his passing, knowing she’d see him again soon.
“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. Without any hesitation, she slid her fingers into his.
Word count: 175
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This post is for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. This week’s prompt was provided by Artycaptures.
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Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own, instead of someone else’s. Billy Wilder