Jean watched him tip the lid of the post box as if he expected something. It had been a tough few days; the death of Emma Kenneely had hit him hard, and the injustice of the young aboriginal boy, Winston irked him. It seemed to bring to the surface some memories, some past problems that he was, as yet, unwilling to talk about.
He stared into the distance. From the back she could see him straighten, as if composing himself from some inner turmoil.
Jean walked slowly towards him, not wanting to surprise or upset him.
He felt her presence, more than saw her. Her innate calm soothed him. Her superficial remarks about the new box brought him back to the present. His words, the sorrow about the children in the orphanage, how they brought to mind his own daughter, alone in a country where she did not know the language, hurt her almost as much as they hurt him.
She put her hand on his shoulder and looked up at him, his eyes were full of tears and she began to tear up herself.
'Come inside, ' she said, softly, 'I'll make some tea.'
He patted her hand, 'I'll be there shortly.'
As she walked away she mused. She wished she could offer him more than tea. He was so sad, so hurt, and so was she; but in a different way, and also the same. She had grown to feel more for him than a housekeeper should: two lonely people together drawn together. She sighed as she closed the door behind her. Was this how love started.
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I've been watching the DVD's, and this touched me. Reviews and comments welcome.