“In creating, we make our own concrete objects and events out of abstractions; we bring the abstraction down and back to its specific meaning, to the concrete; but the abstraction has helped us to make the kind of concrete we want the concrete to be. It has helped us to create—to reshape the world as we wish it to be…”—Ayn Rand
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Annie woke and found him already at table, well into a world, with fixture’s light above warming him beneath; writing, opened page and moving pen.
She loved to find him immersed in a writing world, a place she could not go, not until it was made. She wondered what it was, what he imagined, and too what when he would welcome her with offered words into its end creation.
“What are you writing?” Anne asked.
James’ attention rose from page, his gateway and medium to dream. Holding in sight and stare of one another, he listened to her questions, read attention in her care that was told through words, eyes, and further expressions; all of which wrote then into his world.
“A romance,” James answered, “one that is in me and wanted to catch before it’s lost.” He put the pen down, gazing with greater attention upon Annie as she stood.
“Why a romance?” Annie questioned on, enjoying the way she held his eyes.
“Why not?” James smiled. “Couldn’t the world use more of that? More than lust, different than simple love; one that without the second becomes only an after-emptiness; and the other, when too strong or unreciprocated—even knowing nothing is owed, or due, or promised—becomes burden and pain and not the living joy, when balanced, it becomes.”
“And what is romance?”
Beneath the fixture, James’ face lit further in an exudence, smile growing as he returned in look to opened and writing page.
“…the little blend of everything that, found, gifts everything a magic and enchantment.”
“A fairytale…” Annie spoke.
“In way, but real to sense and heart…”
Annie smiled, looking on him with eyes of emerald spheres that deepened into hearts of brown ribboned and flecked with hints of gold.
“I hope you write it well,” Annie told, meaning so simple and true.
Annie moved from stand and made her way to a pot of coffee on kitchen counter, brewed and waiting, half-filled from James’ hours already awake and in a world.
Her body moved lithe and long and free, legs gliding in stride from beneath skirt of gown that wore light and thin upon her body much as her dress—only bedsheet—worn through night before. Toned and summer tanned, her skin adorned in ocre-freckled accents scattered across shoulders, face, and spread into chest and glowed with warm enchantments under light of table fixture’s gleam.
Annie poured her coffee with back to James. Turning, purl of steam rose as thin and dissipating cloud in energy and space between.
Annie held her mug close to chest, took from it drink, then returned it back to hold and rest close and near to heart. Moving more, she drew out chair, bringing herself to sitting rest at James’ side. She looked on the cipher of his hand to page. Some words, she discerned but most remained as mystery.
Beside James, Annie crossed her legs, nearest to crossing over that away, fall of gown raising higher after shifting of legs’ rest, toned and tanned sight more lovely than gown’s grace; and from their crossed hold, James’ sight rose again to orbs of emerald shallows and browning, deepening centers flecked and veined with gold.
“It sounds like a lovely creation,” Annie spoke in words and further tellings. “I hope you write it well enough that others feel and believe; and that, for you, it becomes greater creation; one that lives beyond the page.”
Annie kissed him light on lips, holding to his jaw as it faintly opened for fleeting dance of matching tongues when, after, Annie rose and departed back for room from which they both rose.
She glided on legs—long, and lithe, and lovely—that moved with flowing stride and the knowing she was followed, attention fixed, every step and sway and movement of her way.
She wanted him to see.
In the room, Annie laid her coffee on dresser face, its energy of heat cooling as another took. On bedside stand, Annie lit a candle that cast glow aura into room and whose flame wavered with gentle flicker as her body moved, stirring air around. Annie returned to way and dress of night before, gown left lying on the floor, as beneath bed’s sheets she waited knowing he would come.