She sat at island in evening sun, on backless wicker stool that drew her body raised and upright in a balance.
Yellow light shone through window, casting on the island face drawing violet blush from depth and shadow in the stone.
Open page before her, pen in her right hand, she waited for the words, believing they would show, and doodled small spiraling circles expanding outward from beginning and center as she waited for inspiration’s arrive.
He found her so and smiled, glad to see her in her efforts.
“I’m glad that you are writing,” he told.
“Nothing’s written yet,” she responded.
“Then I am glad you are giving it a chance…” he added, undiminished in his gladness and endearment for her effort at art and catching moments of the spirit.
“What if it never comes?” she asked.
“If what never comes?”
“The idea…”
“But you have many ideas…Pick one you’d like to work with.”
“What if it doesn’t turn out as I hope?”
“Try again…or try a new idea…” he answered.
He saw her stress, straining in expectance and desire for profound.
He spoke from read of her demeanor. “You’re overthinking it. Let it be. It’s supposed to be fun, not torturing. Write whatever comes—no expectation. Little is ever perfect on first try, and when it is, it isn’t yours—it’s God’s; we’re just the medium.”
He placed his hands upon her shoulders, working slow and gently free tension and stresses they retained. She felt them loose. She felt them free and, with as well, a tension of the mind.
Soothed, loosened and mind-freed; thought came. It came easy. It was playful. She loved it in the mind, writing as it came; and when it ended, a feel remained and she wanted more to share.
Last of evening’s light remained in glow of window’s view. Shadow settled into kitchen and surround of island’s place.
Story in hand, she rose wanting him to read.
She found him in a nearby room, in read and rest in leather chair whose back and seat shone creases and age of wear like those beginning on his brow and outward creep from corners of his eyes: sign of age and living use.
She handed him the written words, read his eyes as he read the page; tension in his jaw, expand of his eyes as he read, wanted, and believed—as she.
It was as she hoped to see.
Moved in the story, the sight of his read—his body still in seat—she brought her own above; straddle and rest—chest to chest, eye to eye, smile to smile becoming kiss; her arms above his shoulders then, hands’ hold to his back or neck; slow and deepening in the kiss. Shift of holds, hands’ work in freeing of front and body of the other: chest to chest, eye to eye, smile to smile; rise in hold and settle on—love to love—in become of story’s true.