So, it seems that I've started to write drabbles, which is something I'm not terribly used to; I hope they're ok.
Lover
Shelagh has never had a lover before. Never mind that, she has never really been kissed, apart from him; her first proper kiss, the first that conveyed any semblance of passion conveyed it abundant human measures- placed in the palm of her hand, heavier than a breath, softer than a touch- and when she found him looking at her; his eyes caressing the lines of her looks, because he was in love with what he knew was beneath them, bolder than any mouth could kiss, adoring the contours of the shadows that drew her, but from afar.
All of that is over now; and they look each other full in the eyes, smiling unstoppably, everything clear on the foggy, foggy road. Never again will she pull away her hand or abruptly avert her eye. She cannot; she cannot stop. Their eyes are locked with one another, and it does not matter that she has never had a lover, as he holds his coat around her, holds her like he holds on to his life for her- she is his life. And she knows she will be his lover; her arms stretching out, she holds him now like a lover, without even having to think. She loves him now; she is his lover.
And he kisses her lips, and they come to life in a way that they both thought was lost to them- when his wife passed away, when she turned away from it through choice- like never before. Breathing one another's lips, moving in tender motion, trying to push back their smiles so they can kiss and kiss and kiss. Their lips part and the silent motion speaks, I love you, I want to let you in. Still, they have not said it, but they have tasted it in one another's mouths, like lifeblood. Like the confession of the most heavenly thought.
Yellow
No one else can wear yellow like she can. Some people can manage it respectably, but she does so much more than just manage- but that's always the way she's been. She can do anything, he thinks.
He bought her the dress; he bought her several, and jackets, skirts, blouses, everything she needed. She was modest in her taste, and quite meek in her choice of fabrics but she had liked the yellow dress. He had liked it in the shop, but even then he had not really seen her properly. He sees it one late evening, in early summer when they are out together and she is wearing her dress. She wears the colour so naturally, she lives the colour- it matches her beautiful yellow hair- it becomes her colour and it moves into the air around her like a spirit. She is bright and beautiful, and she turns heads on every street they walk down.
He is proud, immeasurably proud, to walk down the street with such a woman, his arm around her waist, but also a little nervous. She could do better than him, she could have any man she wanted.
But he sees it in her eyes; she hasn't noticed the turning heads or admiring looks. Somehow, her eyes are only for him. There is something wrong in that; it wasn't him who had led such a good life, how on earth had he been given such a reward as her? She is the colour of the sun, her heart solid gold. Unbelievably, she only wants him.
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