Scalloped Edges

It was strange how, at that precise moment, she was remembering the first time she saw that tablecloth. At the local bazaar, window shopping. How she had begged him to get it.

“There’s no money.” He had said. She persisted.

“It’s perfect!”

He had looked at her queerly, then. He saw nothing special about it. A regular, cream-coloured square cloth, for a regular, square table. “Look at the pattern!” She had said. “The scalloped edges!” She was adamant.

He shook his head in that special way of his. What a devilishly handsome smile he had. Of course he gave in. And God knows what other things he had to give up to give in. His weekly ration of tobacco, for one.

“You’re not smoking these days.” She noticed a few days later.

“Oh, nothing. I breathe the city air once in a while. Same damage, doesn’t cost a penny.” He winked. She persisted, but he didn’t say anything more. She guessed the reason, but she knew he would deny it.

That day, the were sitting at the table, with the same tablecloth. He seemed thoughtful. He seemed to look not at the table, but through the table and beyond it. She cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned his head and looked at her. Those blue eyes, she had thought. She seemed to tremble under his gaze. The whole Earth seemed to tremble. That’s when he said, “Earthquake!”

The whole world had been trembling. Before they could run, the world collapsed around them. At least that’s what she had thought, after the walls came crashing down. As she lay there, under the rubble. All she could see of him was his beautiful blood stained face, partially covered by the scalloped edges of a regular, cream-coloured, square tablecloth.

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Writing prompt: Scalloped Edges.

(Day seven)