It was evening, before sunset but after dessert. The sun was thinking about setting, you can imagine the sky in all it's ice cream rainbow colors. Soft clouds stretched out like cotton candy, stuck in the sky. When it rained, it rained sweet droplets of sugarcane, or well it did in children's books, authors imaginations, in the mind of artists, and in the lyrics of poets.
She stood at the window with a glass of Merlot in her hand. Nina Simone's voice sang out from the record player, Wild is the Wind. It was windy out there, that was true. How appropriate, she thought, as she raised her wine glass to the lip of her subtle expression. Her mood did little to suggest or assume. She seemed content just to be there, watching the waves slowly heave their heavy bodies towards the cliffs below their house.
It didn't matter that he wasn't there yet, she knew he would be arriving home after her. It wasn't that she was afraid to be alone, at home, in the evening. In fact, she was usually most comfortable in said quiet moments, until recently. Recently, she had taken to whipping her head around at the sound of the cedar house shifting. She had been startled a few times at the scratch of a branch on a pane of glass. She silently cursed the names Ann Holt and Jo Nesbo, Steig Larsson. These names never used to mean anything to her but now these Scandinavian authors and the crime stories they created had come to scare her. I should try reading more Canadian prairie tales, she thought; there's nothing scary about farming, is there?
She turned and slipped onto the leather couch, her legs curling under her. From the seat she had taken, she was able to maintain her comfortable view of the ocean. She sat there, starring through the 12 foot cedar encased windows, the glass of wine still in her hand. From here she watched the water breathe and sigh and breathe and sigh, exhaling to herself, to the rhythm of the earths' gravitational pull. Satisfied that she had finally relaxed, she tossed the end of her shawl with her left hand over her shoulder and let her mind wander. She thought back to the morning when she had ordered breakfast at the restaurant. After placing her order she had turned for no particular reason to look behind her and caught the eye of a woman who had been greeted by the waiter. A reassuring moment passed between them. Regardless of the fact that she had never met the woman, nor was she about to, there was a look between them seemed to suggest a kind of knowing. It was as though seeing each other in the backdrop of their respective lives was somehow expected and not a surprise.
He was walking towards her. She had heard him come in and he knew she was home, so neither thought it necessary to break the quiet moment with a cliche "Honey, I'm home" or a "Hi". Why say what we already know, was a kind of unspoken understanding they had between them. It has always seemed that way; she knew he had similar thoughts to hers and vice versa. Looking past the fireplace, she turned to face him. He had dropped his bags on the floor and was walking past the table they bought together at an understated second-hand store. The heel of his boots echoed a small command of authority. He walked up to her, intentionally yet casually, as thought by accident; he enjoyed savouring the moments he came home to her. She welcomed him back with a kiss, holding her hand at the nape of his neck so that he remained in her space just a moment longer. He starting pouring himself some wine in the glass that had been waiting for him. She watched the deep maroon liquid drop from the mouth of the bottle that was held in his grip and glanced up at him. He held her eyes with his then sat down beside her.
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