A Passing Attachment

The Promenade, 1918, Marc Chagall 

It was the end of the war, the Great War, the war to end all wars. The lucky ones, the survivors, were reunited with their loved ones. The others, the unfortunate ones, the bereaved, the deceased, the maimed, were forgotten in the spirit of euphoria that swept through the land. Later would come the harshness of facing up to a splintered future, of trying to re-establish normal life when so much and so many had been destroyed.

I noticed him standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. I moved towards him. Wordlessly, he took my hand and led me through a gate to a meadow. He produced a flask of wine and two glasses and we sat on velvet grass.

I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. We were lost in the loneliness, the disconnection that follows the ending of a cataclysmic event that absorbed everyone for four long years. We came together for mutual comfort, to find passion and joy, however ephemeral.

You might say he swept me off my feet. 

Thank you, Tess, for this prompt. Click here to see more responses.