A climb comes with an occasional gasp for air. A dance routine comes with a misstep. A song comes with a miss, a stare interrupted by a blink and you with dents to kiss. I trip for the freckles. I trip for the lock of hair which insists on falling over your bright eyes. I trip for the meticulousness of choosing wine over red, and peach over pink.
Comfortable silence prevailed as we sipped coffee under the evening sky. Just the right amount of milk and sugar. Just the right bitter black. With the slight nip in the air and an occasional rustle, it was a certain November. She had been a song to hum along with. I looked out into the distance, as she sat beside me, breathing her in.