They sat across at table under clarity of cloudless high-summer sun. He drank a water, heavy with ice, as she took draw from stronger drink. Beneath the sun, each felt the heat, and he watched slow build and single sweat bead form and trace in slow-draw fall down side of her open neck.
She wore dark glasses and, her eyes, he could not read, as she took a draw from straw, reclined faint in seat, weight resting on back and arms of chair in rest, looking to sky then back to him.
In the sun and heat, he sweated stronger, the way that he was made and she smiled on him, eyes hidden, as she rested in her place.
She sat higher up, taking further draw, then leaning nearer in, asked to him a question.
“Do you ever tire from talking metaphors?” she asked. “Don’t you ever just want to tell a story straight, say clear what you are hinting at—whatever it is…”
He listened, thought brief on his response.
“I do,” he answered, “but when spoken plain, sometimes it’s not what others want to hear. Sometimes, a story told plain is a little more than rough around the edges.”
She took another draw, cool of the drink and take of its mix soothing and settling into a comfort as sun shone in heat above.
She laughed lightly, dismissive of concern, “Did you ever consider that coarseness may be just what a cultured woman wants: boldness and brashness in an overly cautious and passive world?” She took another drink, enlivenment of cool and mix stronger in effect, after-smile more engaging. “Why not live a little?” she asked. ”They’re only stories: to write and make however you wish.” Her drink cooled but, within, a warmth began. “What else do you want to tell?” she asked with word and tones and energy through space between.
Trail of single bead shone as silver path of fall down line of neck as she smiled still from behind concealing, shaded lens: lithe and easy in spirit, entertained in exchange and the sight of him in sweat.