When I left... a writing prompt

When I left the river I never expected to see his face again. I laid him face down in the mud. The slick earth swallowed him whole, sucked him into the creamy muck. I smattered his grave with rocks and broken tree limbs left over from the storm. I lit a cigarette and inhaled, pulling the orange glow toward my lips and walked away.

I first fell in love with his face. His smooth, chiseled jaw. His skin, tanned and taut except for a deep furrow in his brow. His eyes were as dark as fresh tilled soil. He only half smiled, curling up the corners of his mouth just enough to make me want to kiss him and unlock his lips. I never did kiss him.

He awarded me a peck on the cheek once. It was a Sunday in October. We stood in the empty parking lot of the church. He leaned toward me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressed his lips against the side of my face. As he pulled away, fibers of my wool sweater dress clung in patches to his dark, tailored jacket.

"There's someone else," he whispered. His eyes locked onto mine, but I shifted my gaze to the gravel at my feet and chuckled.

"I only invited you to church. I didn't expect anything more." I lied.

He grinned and exhaled. "Good. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
He hugged me again, more of my dress transferred to his sleeves, branding him.

I saw him weeks later with her. They sat on the same side of the booth, investigating a single menu. Black whiskers peppered his chin and upper lip. He smiled fully now, his straight teeth glistening in the glow of the restaurant light. She turned and pressed her full lips onto his. My cheek burned recalling his feather touch.

A thick beard masked his beautiful face at their wedding. Hair blanketed his entire jaw, and a mustache hooded his broad smile. He wore his tailored jacket. Remnants of my dress still lingered. She stroked his furry chin at the reception, and he nuzzled it against her neck as they shared their first dance.

When the storm came, I called him. He arrived at my house just as the river banks overflowed and crept toward my back door. He lifted me into his arms, carrying me over the water to his truck. His beard grated my cheek like sandpaper. He placed me in the cab and climbed into the driver's seat. As he turned the key, I pulled the paring knife from my pants pocket and drew it across his throat. A thick crimson river trailed down his neck, and his chin dropped to his chest.

I grabbed clumps of his matted, damp beard and sawed them of with the knife. The strong, angular face I so loved slowly revealed itself. I retrieved a razor and cup of warm water from the house. His jaw was smooth when the rain stopped. I kissed his chin, cheeks and pushed his lips into a frozen half smile. I drove him to the river.

The police questioned me, but nothing was proven. His wife held a memorial service. She hugged me as I left.

The next storm arrived two months later. Rain hammered the ground, and the river swelled, birthing a flood. The water seeped into my home and bathed my floors. It took a day or two for the earth to drink in the excess. When the waters receded, I sloshed through the kitchen and opened the door to the back porch. Murky inches spilled onto the pine boards and pooled around the body. His body, green and stiff. His face, sunken but still smooth. His lips still curled in the half smile only for me.