The afternoon sprawled like a lazy dog in the little town. Sweat trickled down my back as I raced from the sun-scoured piazzas to the shade of the whitewashed alleys. She was not there. Had I imagined her, loping tall and bronzed into the taverna, swinging a leg over the chair beside me? Was our perfect closeness a dream?
At the harbourside, the taverna keeper passed me a message scrawled on a scrap of paper.
Some moments are so perfect they deserve to be protected from life’s corrosion.
The ferry hooted as the mooring ropes fell away.
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here