Excerpt From A Project

(with a few details changed)

"I like your scars, Bradley," called a deep voice from my memory. I'm transported back, years ago, to the cabinet makers where we worked, before the Revolution. 

He had seen my first scars, the only ones I had prior to the war. I look into the mirror and cock my head, so I can see my jagged scars, reddish-purple reminders of an accident in childhood. 

I try not to go deeper into my memory, but I blink and find myself outside the cabinet makers where we had sat close together on the long bench, knee to knee, exchanging glances. 

After eating lunch, he'd tossed aside his gala apple core, brushed off his weathered hands, then ran them over his glistening face. He caught me admiring him, his sandy blonde hair tied into a ponytail with a black string.

He effortlessly stood out against the vivid red leaves in his loose white shirt and black breeches. My eyes darted from his hair, to his square jaw, to large and calloused hands.

I'll never forget how he had smiled and slowly brought his pointer finger towards me, then gently stroked my neck scars. He rested his hand on my shoulder, and we met each other's eyes. Glancing around, we leaned toward each other but stopped abruptly when we heard footsteps.