They shared their morning reading and writing in light of golden dawn that shone through parted window blinds, slats of light manifest in shaped and spreading bands into openness of room.
As the last of coffee percolated with hush and singe of finishing drip, he rose, pouring each a mug that warmed in hold as steam rose from surface face. He carried it to her where she read sitting, legs folded beneath, as her mind entered realm of story in her hands. She looked up from the book, smiling, the warmth of offering in her grip, taking draw and sensing taste and warmth in descent as she drank.
He gazed on her sight, body in rest, covered light and showing of skin and spirit that warmed and glowed in season’s change of light and lengthening days.
From days in sun, tan returned, coloring back winter’s morose, and like first spring flowers over field, her skin shone again in dappled mark of freckled spread rising and returning to be seen.
She drank again, resting book upon the sofa where she read, and looked to him, wondering thought that held behind his eyes.
She never asked, and still he said.
“I am wondering what stories are in you. What stories are waiting to be lived? What stories are waiting to be told, written, made? Maybe it’s just the light, but I sensed one near to surface; and wondered if you’d catch it and share it to the world.”
Coffee in hand seemed to cool as rays through room and warmth within responded, resonant and amplifying in energy of spoken thought.
There was a story there; waiting, asking, wanting to be told. Could she catch it?
She smiled, accent of blush coloring further life to visage of spring’s spirit.
She left the book where it lain, reaching then for journal and pen; beginning with the story’s tail; catching before escape, then wrote story into life.