Bobby said it was his boat. And I believed him. Never thought he might be stealing as he held the mooring rope while I clambered in. He manoeuvred us away from the bank, he pulled the cord that started the engine. He didn’t look furtive, left and right and all around him; took the boat out on the lake.
He dropped his anchor way out in the middle. The day was hot, the water cool. We picnicked from a wicker hamper. I don’t remember now what food we ate, only the wine. Full-bodied; he said like me, and I blushed.
And that’s when I heard the heavy throbbing of a hefty boat, that’s when I looked and saw the blue-uniformed men. And that’s when I realised what he’d done.
I nearly tipped into the water when he jumped overboard. Bobby Brighton died that day. I’ll miss him forever.
149 words written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge