A/N: Moving on from our spot of angst, we have Elliot's chapter. I know he's a fan-favorite, so I hope I did him justice. Today's farmer is Elise (and yes, Elliot absolutely loves that their names are phonetically similar). According to my notes she is: Married to Elliot. A dreamer who is sometimes forgetful. Loves books, but she's not much of a critic, so she thinks even Elliot's worst is a masterpiece. Easily impressed. Loves poetry, especially of the sappy and sentimental variety.
Elise cursed under her breath as the tip of her pencil snapped beneath the pressure she was putting on it. Elliot was only going to be out for a few minutes longer, and she needed this poem to be perfect. Truth be told, Elise was much more comfortable reading poems than writing them, but Elliot often told her that poetry was the highest form of communication, and the message she had to deliver certainly warranted the use of such a thing. Every time she stopped to check her work, though, she second-guessed herself. Her husband was the greatest wordsmith of the age. A man of his eloquence and calibre might be offended by the way she was butchering the language.
She scribbled on in spite of herself, too firmly fixed on her plan to back out. She would apologize to him afterwards. She had started out strongly enough, with a consistent theme and imagery, but as time and paper wore on, she began to lose traction. Finally, with a desperate glance at the clock on the wall, she scrawled the last three words at random, wincing as she beheld the way her poem rose in the splendor of adequacy, only to drop sharply into uninspired nonsense. Hopefully Elliot would figure it out quickly and then be too distracted to mull over just how awful the whole thing was.
She had barely finished dotting a period on the end when the door opened, and Elliot swept in like a crimson leaf on an Autumn breeze. Elise jumped to her feet nervously, and fiddled with the paper in her hands.
"All of nature sings today, my darling," he reported, sweeping her into his arms for a kiss. "My very soul throbs with inspiration! It's a good day for poetry."
"F-funny you should say that," Elise began. "I was just trying a bit of poetry myself."
"Really?" His eyes lit up like stars. "How marvelous! You must show me what you've come up with. For even the daily utterances of your lips are like sweet honey to the ear. I can only imagine that poetry from your hand will be like a shower of gold upon the mind!" Elise flushed cherry red. She was used to Elliot's extravagant brand of praise (and even quite enjoyed it), but he seemed to be particularly enthusiastic today.
"W-well," she stammered. "Here is is." She raised up the sheet of paper between them with a quivering hand. Elliot took it with a flourish and held it delicately, as though it was of enormous worth. It took him a moment to decipher her messy handwriting, though he was the closest anyone had ever gotten to being practically fluent in it. After a bit of concentrated squinting, the words reluctantly lept off the page to greet him.
Imagine
Many
Poppies
Radiant
Enchanting
Garden
Noiseless
Autumnal
Negligence
Total.
He blinked. Then looked up at Elise. Then back down at the page. He cleared his throat as though preparing to speak, then fell silent again. Elise felt sweat begin to slide down the back of her neck.
"This is...very avant-garde," he said at last. "Unfortunately, I only have experience with interpreting classic poetry. I'm afraid the poetic meaning of this goes beyond my meagre understanding." Elise felt her heart plummet. He hadn't seen it. She had been counting on his enormous intelligence to spot the (frankly, rather obvious) message right away. She didn't have a plan for this. Elliot's brow furrowed as he scanned the page again. "Darling, the poppy isn't even an Autumnal plant. You taught me that."
"Could you read it again?" she blurted desperately. "Slowly? I think you might get the... the poetic meaning if you just look at it a bit." Elliot glanced at her, sympathy hovering behind his gaze, then faithfully returned to the page.
The clock on the wall ticked on.
Elise was moments away from giving up and simply telling him, when Elliot's hand suddenly clenched around the paper and he drew one of his loud, exaggerated gasps that she was so fond of. His eyes darted back up to hers, sparkling with excitement.
"You..." he breathed. "You are with child?" Elise released her pent-up tension with a loud exhale, then smiled and nodded. Elliot gave a wordless shout, tossed the paper aside, and scooped her up, planting another kiss on her mouth. "This is fantastic! Beyond fantastic! My heart quivers like a... a... I don't even have words for it!" He sucked in another huge gasp. "My pen! I must find my pen! The world must know of our good fortune. I will write you a song. Nay, a sonnet. Nay, a play! As Yoba is merciful, I don't know if I have the artistry to fully communicate my joy! But for you, my love, and our child, I will bravely try!" Elise laughed as he darted to the kitchen drawer and frantically dug around for a writing utensil. He found one, bolted back to her, kissed her again, then sprinted across the living room. "Oh Muse, thy earthly form is Wife!" she heard him shouting in the next room.
Elise plopped down on the kitchen chair, suddenly exhausted. Elliot's bursts of enthusiasm were like happy little tornados that blustered through their home and her heart, leaving her beaming and very tired. She rubbed her stomach fondly.
"I forgot to tell him there's two," she realized. There was another joyous yell from their bedroom office as Elliot's creativity exploded onto paper. "Maybe I'll save that outburst for tomorrow."
