A/N: Why is everything I write so depressing?
I asked him what he thought, right now, right then, as we lay naked in the wintriness of the mountain's embrace.
He said he thought of Alma, his fiancée, her sweet, beckoning face; the children he wanted to have, to watch grow; the sheep in the distant meadow, frightened by an act of God we had endeavored to take advantage of. He said he thought of a simple life, without tragedy or hardship; where he could bow his head against the sun and let the world pass him by. He never mentioned me.
I asked him why it had been four years, fucking four years, and we were wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket in some shit excuse of a motel listening to the semis rumble past.
He murmured as though it meant nothing, as though four years was just a blink of an eye. I couldn't see his face; I could smell his cigarette and breathed in deeply, mesmerized by the quiet dance of the smoke and the soothing rhythm of his heart. I closed my eyes and felt small, like a child, and in one swift motion Ennis wrapped his arms around me and locked me away like a secret.
I asked him what he wanted, after twenty years; twenty years of tragedy and hardship. I asked him, What do we do? we've gone off the deep end, we can't figure this one out.
He looked at me with melancholy eyes; looked at me with a face I new so well, had memorized with my fingers, had kissed with my lips. I saw his age, I felt mine; silver whispers of hair, creases and stiff joints; and I could barely think, barely speak, because my melancholy was as tangible as the air I breathed.
Effortlessly, he brought me close. Kissed my knuckles, caressed my face, murmured, Little darlin' as his body enveloped mine.
What do we do?