“There is a beauty in the openness, don’t you think?” he asked to Anna as she sat at morning table in open light of open room, empty—open—page before her; lines of blind shadows and cast of pen, near to but not quite parallel, in crossing of the line-ruled spacing of the page; hue of the paper like tone of sun—yellow-crème of a warming hue, “A beauty in its blankness, open and clean beginning for whatever is on your mind you wish to record and give flesh in word; to say what you wish to say, share what you wish to share—neat and clean or hasty in write, however it comes and however it puts to page…”
Anna gazed on the page as he spoke his words—seeing, feeling, and knowing all the ways he spoke and shared. One-minded, more than like—maybe that was the thought, the words she’d find and way to say.
She felt the sun upon her skin—warmed and toned of the yellow crème; spirit as page and light shining through.
His hands touched light in hold to her shoulder, fingers’ tips gentle into delicate of collar’s depression; kiss to her cheek, then to lips as she turned; affection of his after-smile, hand’s linger moment more, her feel of touch’s press into tender of depression before leaving her to thoughts—open of page, open of room, body and mind as all in room: warmed and smoothed in crème of the yellow hue.
