IAN YOUNG

“Don’t look so shocked…how do I look?” she giggled. “I hope you like it, I just picked it up from the store today.”

 

Roger laid in bed, watching his wife, Annabelle, move back and forth in front of her full-length mirror just in front of the bed. She would elegantly twist one way, determining which angle was best to validate the red dress she wore, then twist again. As she moved, the skirt would lift just slightly and the light bounced off the sequins that traced around the hem. Running her fingers through her golden-brown hair, she dazzled in the glow of his bedside lamp. It was as if there was an aura surrounding her like the heavenly glow of an angel. His heart was pounding just looking at her.

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He slowly looked over to the portrait that sat next to him on his nightstand. The picture, lightly covered in dust, was of him and Annabelle at his brother’s wedding nearly five years ago. They stood outside leaning against a railing that overlooked a beach during a deep magenta sunset. It was his favorite picture of her. Her smile, her golden-brown hair, and that red dress, the one with the sequins on the hem. It was his favorite dress. 

 

She died not long after the picture was taken.

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She asked him again “Well…?”

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With a tremble in his voice, he said,

 

 “You look beautiful, as always”