James tried to write, but neither words nor story showed. In evening’s fall, sky shone black and starless from clouded night, moon hinting as glow but undefined through mask of cover that moved low and fast, contours and folds of accented and shone as they crossed before the glow.
Before window’s view, Annie read at rest in chair, illumed in moon’s masked cast and too the amber glow of candle’s burn on small table’s top beside. Resting, her body curled, legs drawn and and folded beneath, upper body leaning forward as lower back rested and pressed into chair-back’s base.
In her hands, she held a romance. Drawn into its telling, she bit light to index finger of her left hand clasped faint between her teeth as she focused, fixed, on story’s telling in her right.
Teeth released as she moved to turn the page, and as she did, eyes rose above pages finding James’ staring back; he sitting at table, open page, pen beside, nothing made as he gazed on her.
“How’s it coming?” Annie asked as she lowered her book to more clearly speak and see.
“It’s not.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Annie consoled. “You’ve had a nice run, and writing’s momentum. It’s there or it isn’t, and you can’t force it when a story isn’t there.
Don’t worry about it,” Annie said again. “It’ll come or it won’t; and forcing what doesn’t come natural never makes anything good. Take a break,” Annie encouraged. “Don’t overthink it and let your mind focus on something else for a while.”
“Like what?” James asked.
“Like me…” Annie answered calm, plain, and natural. Through sounding air of indifference, butterflies moved within at her spoken words, and she smiled at witness to James’ change and reading of meaning in her words and accompanied expression.
Annie spoke more. “You want to write a love story…Forget about the writing….Live one…Write it after…don’t overthink it and enjoy something else for a time…Maybe that’s where the story waits wanting to be found…”
James listened, gazed, reading her words, wisdom, and way as her body stayed folded, legs drawn and bent beneath, her upper body straightening back in elongation from story-drawn forward lean. James rose and moved for her, taking her by hand and standing her up from seat.
He took hold and brought her body tight, kissing her soft-curl smiled lips as hand held and supported her from neck beneath fall of hair as other held to curve and point of her hip.
Kiss moved and fell, as he drew hair away from the left of her neck, kiss and warmth falling slow from face down side then across bladed sense of skin over collar as high hold moved, wrapping over shoulder’s crest and fingers pressed into depression and melt of softness in between.
With hold and move, he guided her down in lie upon Persian rug covering floor of the room in softening pad and intricate colored spread.
Upon the floor, he loved her once, twice, and then again; each returned and built from lingerings, effects, and affections of the last: connection, bond, awareness and knowing of the other—when for strength, when to gentle, move, roll, raise, pin and hold, release to free; the way of her change when hold and clutch drew tight, rhythm, breath, feel, embrace; her need for kiss then stare and lastly closing eyes as she went into her way; and then from high returned; lying, keeping, gentle in after-meekness and glow and lover’s keep as they returned to building back; finding, having, and sharing free passion and inspirations raised and exchanged in equal power with the other.
When ended, she fell into a peace. He covered her with shawl, leaving her to dream and rest as his own heart stayed wakened, stirred and alive.
It was then when story wrote fast, strong, and free—impassioned, affected, and inspired—which is the only way such story happens true.