Vines

A small radio was playing on a crowded bookcase. 70s music. Love songs. Reminded him of growing up in L.A.

He was just in the old neighborhood. Looked smaller, but prettier. His eyes traced the trees and cracked streets back to when he was a kid. Rattled. Quiet. The spider in his hand.

“What do you think?” he asked her, taking in her profile, the button nose. The skies were gray, the trees green and brown.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, the scarf around her neck wrapped around his memory.

“It is,” he said, pushing back the bad memories and pulling in the good. “It really is.”

Sometimes stories and lives are told in thousands of words. And other times not so much.