Part of a series of 10 shorts aptly titled "Ten Years" which, as the title implies, happens within a 10-year time span (to the past, present, or future).
She always had a “thing” for his voice. Deep, slightly harsh, but had a boyish tone. Sometimes she imagined hearing it close to her neck, ragged and hoarse. It made her shiver.
“So my sister and I threw eggs at this house. Then my brother tripped on their lawnmower. It made so much noise…”
Their conversations were mostly about families—her’s and his, separately. At times she talked about her friends or about mutual friends she still kept contact with. Then, when it’s late at night, she talks about big boats while half-asleep, he’d talk about puppies. They made fun of each other. They had fun altogether.
“Wait, why did you decide to egg this guy’s house?”
“Were you falling asleep again? Dreaming about yachts?”
“No! Unlike you I have more sophisticated things to dream about, let alone talk about.”
“Tell me, because I want to laugh at your answer.”
“I want to laugh when you ask.”
She always had a thing for his laugh. Honest and genuine, it makes her smile. It was the type of laughter that rumbles from your core, feel it throughout your body as it leaves your throat, and when you hear it coming out of your mouth. The type that echoes happiness or amusement on her behalf. It didn’t really matter.
At that time, nothing ever did.