James’ day ran long, his work late, and by the time he returned to home Annie was already in bed; reading on its spread in loose grey sweatshirt with soft-lined plush that felt as fleece in warmth and cover of her skin beneath. She wore shorts that covered her waist and ended high on thighs, showing and accenting well and full the line and length of her legs, bent soft at knee as she rested on side and hip, fronts and risen outer line of her legs bleached and brightened in forward face to bedstand lamp and softer candle lit beside.
James undressed, showered, and when joining in bed, there remained a weight and burden visible in his countenance: a furrow in brow that was most often smooth without strain, a focus in his eyes on a nearness unseen but visualized in whatever thought it was that held him tense.
Reading his mien, her own body tensed, tightening in lay and rest that before was free; sensing as he and knowing not why.
“What is it?” Annie asked.
To her voice, James’ countenance softened, his eyes drew from the unseen near and to the close and presence of her; presence, unlike thought that was visible, corporeal, and true in manifest way. A meekness, vulnerability, shone where before there was a wall and hardness.
“I came to terms today that I’m not great at my job, and I really don’t care. I took an hour off in the day.”
Annie tried to make light, “Most people call that lunch.”
“But I didn’t eat. I just didn’t want to work.”
“What did you do?”
“I wrote…”
“What did you write?”
“A story?”
“What about?”
“A conversation, much like the one we’re having now.”
“And what was the purpose of it?”
“Maybe it was a reckoning and coming to terms with a truth revealing, neither the truth, or its keeper, wishing longer to keep it hid.”
“And what is the truth?”
“All I want to do is write.”
Annie laughed, a gentle smile and eyes shined in light of the lamp, “Congratulations, you’ve found a passion. There are many that never do.”
To her sound and voice, James’ was drawn into equal answer, mirth rising forth from depth of beginning gloom and consternation.
“And what do you want to write?”
“Romances: beauty, wonder, and spirit—depth—in an overstimulated and sensory world. I want to write that too, but for purpose of empowering and communing the other. Stories to feel and believe as if they were one’s own…”
As he spoke further, he moved in the room, making for opposite side of the bed. Annie’s attention followed, body rolling from one hip to other, fronts of her leg shadowed with lamp then to her back, its cast highlighting silhouette rest of her body in lay, eyes changed and shadowed too as she moved in watch of him.
“I think you should,” Annie encouraged. “You’ve found your passion, maybe even your purpose. Many never do, and those that do: even fewer follow.
Dare to try. Be open to unknowns.”
Annie rolled again to other side, turning off light of the lamp, and after shone only the soft glow of candle left burning. Its flame was gentle and soft, lighting well near wall and head of the bed leaving depth of the room weaker seen and blended in changings of shadows and soft illuminations.
“And if romances are what you wish to write,” she spoke. “Live them too. Do that, words and truths will write themselves.”
The light of her eyes were changed from mirth to depth and mystery, pupils and holding centers expanded in only the candle glow. Annie rolled to back, slow and deep breathing, plush of the sweatshirt brushing over body in swell and emptying with ever drawn breath—changed sense to what plush covered—as she waited for his meet; and when he did, in dance of candle and kiss; it was the latter that lived with greater flicker, stirred and emboldened with every breath exhaled, respired slow and deep into; becoming warmth and heat beyond way of candle’s flame.