Red Bird Who Never Flies

She stood looking out her upstairs bedroom window, a cool breeze wafting up from the ocean below,  her white silken gown moving against her pale skin, fingers of air lifting her long auburn hair off her swan-like neck.  A half-moon hung in the midnight sky, its image reflecting off the water in a million tiny glints.  She looked down at her body  outlined in the moonlight and imagined the gown was his hands  caressing her, sliding soft as a whisper  through her hair.

She had been waking every night since first she saw him .  Sometimes she felt his presence as though he were standing in a darkened corner of the room willing her to open her eyes and acknowledge him.   Susan, her younger sister who shared her bed,  lay sleeping, her long golden hair spread over her pillow,  unaware Belinda stood , night after night, aching for the touch, the kiss, of  a tall dark haired man whose ship had recently lay moored in the harbor.   Susan was her only sister, no brothers, and they shared all their secrets, except this one Belinda felt belonged only to her.  And this new feeling.  Of yearning.  Of loneliness.  No one had ever made her feel this way.

The village rested quietly, no activity on its streets,  only a few lights scattered here and there.  Belinda wondered what those people were doing, burning their lamp oil at such a late hour; perhaps a sick child needing to be rocked, or a housewife preparing an early breakfast for her dockworker husband.  A dog howled at the moan of a distant train whistle;  soon the train had passed the village and all was quiet again.

Belinda stood motionless, reflecting on what had happened two weeks ago, a Monday it was.  She had walked down the red brick main street  that led directly to the harbor; the salty tang of sea air sharpened her senses.   Gray weathered houses, red geranium filled window boxes,  fragrant lilacs near the doors,   pink hollyhocks  along the picket fences glowing in the sunlight, delighted her eyes.  School had let out for the summer.  Small boys called out to her , diverted from their play by the sight of this girl, the prettiest in the  village.  She smiled at them,  amused  by their interest.  Her red and white plaid skirt swirled around her ankles with every step; she looked like a freshly plucked  scarlet rose.

An admiring whistle came as no surprise; Belinda had become accustomed to them.  Belinda Palmer, at the tender age of eighteen, often heard them as she walked  the streets of Secure Harbor, North Carolina, but this time it seemed as though the admirer was following her, as the whistle came again, softly, a few paces behind her.