A/N: My response to the mood challenge. Word chosen = content. Words = 720
(a *little* over the limit. Sue me ;o) Reviews very much appreciated.
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He was late.
This in itself surprises her, because he is never longer than he says he'll be, but she finds herself quite happy to wait here for him, the day is unusually warm, the sky above housing possibility, marbled with thin wisps of white cloud, which follow no particular pattern, and show no definite end, or beginning. There has to be a point where it stops, but where?
Little mysteries that she finds herself able to think about, now the stress and strain of work has left her, the smell of it in her hair happily replaced with apricot shampoo.
She walks a little way into the park, slowly, each footstep a tiny, inconsequential drop onto the well used gravel path, and ponders how many other footprints have appeared and disappeared in this way today.
Coming to a standstill, she eyes the bench a few feet away from her, then the shade of the trees to her left, but instead opts for a small piece of illuminated grass. Softly, she rests her palms down and sinks into it, the grass giving way easily and merging with her, as if growing around her.
Still late.
She hasn't been left to her thoughts for a long time, life has been too busy, and now she finds herself wondering what she should wonder about. Stretching bedenimed legs out in front of her, she folds her arms over her knees, leaning forward, and just listening. The day is calm but for a small group of children eagerly kicking a ball around near the bottom of the grassy expanse, and a small but happily singing bird in a tree above her.
She begins to hum along, tunelessly, until her strangely chirpy fingers instinctively begin tapping out a steady rhythm and turn the lone hum into the structure of a melody, her own little concerto. It's here she stays, stoically watching the world go by, glancing at the flowers around her.
It's not like she thinks if she watches them long enough she'll see them grow, it's just that they interest her. Tens of bright daffodils stand to attention like legions of soldiers, each with their own story, every small chip eaten from their stems a battle scar, but she notices none of them, and cares little.
It's the honeysuckle on the fence that interests her more. Not just the sweet and happy smell, but the way it twists and turns its way through the weakened trellis holding it, dreaming of escape. What was once pretty is now overcrowded with dying branches, each competing for a piece of sun none will receive, a form of destruction that appeals to her. She loves it.
There's a ray of light flickering along her arms, so cautiously folded, but she isn't sure if this is really the sun, or some twinkling, warm mirage, and if it is really the sun, why it chooses so few times to show itself, when it seems to bring a calmness wherever it shines.
As empty as it was before, her head is beginning to fill with thoughts and possibilities. Questions offering no answers. She trawls through them, and finds one she likes. If the world ended right now, would she be content to have felt one of these rare moments of pure beauty, or resentful that most of her life had been void of them?
She doesn't settle on an answer.
She does want to know how much longer he'll be, however, and then, all of a sudden, she doesn't need to ask anymore. There's a warmth on the back of her neck; the difference between his soft puffs of breath and the warm breeze is small, but distinct to her, and despite all this, the small kiss he leaves there is unmistakable.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"What were you thinking about?"
She pauses, and casts a last, knowing look at the honeysuckle, which she knows will keep her secret. "Mass destruction and the end of the world," she answers, casting her eyes up to him.
He asks for no explanation as he takes her hand and pulls her to her feet, and simply passes her the ice cream cone she pleaded for him to get ten minutes previously. She in turn gratefully accepts, and offers him nothing further as they quietly continue their path to nowhere.
~ * ~ * ~
~ * ~ * ~
He was late.
This in itself surprises her, because he is never longer than he says he'll be, but she finds herself quite happy to wait here for him, the day is unusually warm, the sky above housing possibility, marbled with thin wisps of white cloud, which follow no particular pattern, and show no definite end, or beginning. There has to be a point where it stops, but where?
Little mysteries that she finds herself able to think about, now the stress and strain of work has left her, the smell of it in her hair happily replaced with apricot shampoo.
She walks a little way into the park, slowly, each footstep a tiny, inconsequential drop onto the well used gravel path, and ponders how many other footprints have appeared and disappeared in this way today.
Coming to a standstill, she eyes the bench a few feet away from her, then the shade of the trees to her left, but instead opts for a small piece of illuminated grass. Softly, she rests her palms down and sinks into it, the grass giving way easily and merging with her, as if growing around her.
Still late.
She hasn't been left to her thoughts for a long time, life has been too busy, and now she finds herself wondering what she should wonder about. Stretching bedenimed legs out in front of her, she folds her arms over her knees, leaning forward, and just listening. The day is calm but for a small group of children eagerly kicking a ball around near the bottom of the grassy expanse, and a small but happily singing bird in a tree above her.
She begins to hum along, tunelessly, until her strangely chirpy fingers instinctively begin tapping out a steady rhythm and turn the lone hum into the structure of a melody, her own little concerto. It's here she stays, stoically watching the world go by, glancing at the flowers around her.
It's not like she thinks if she watches them long enough she'll see them grow, it's just that they interest her. Tens of bright daffodils stand to attention like legions of soldiers, each with their own story, every small chip eaten from their stems a battle scar, but she notices none of them, and cares little.
It's the honeysuckle on the fence that interests her more. Not just the sweet and happy smell, but the way it twists and turns its way through the weakened trellis holding it, dreaming of escape. What was once pretty is now overcrowded with dying branches, each competing for a piece of sun none will receive, a form of destruction that appeals to her. She loves it.
There's a ray of light flickering along her arms, so cautiously folded, but she isn't sure if this is really the sun, or some twinkling, warm mirage, and if it is really the sun, why it chooses so few times to show itself, when it seems to bring a calmness wherever it shines.
As empty as it was before, her head is beginning to fill with thoughts and possibilities. Questions offering no answers. She trawls through them, and finds one she likes. If the world ended right now, would she be content to have felt one of these rare moments of pure beauty, or resentful that most of her life had been void of them?
She doesn't settle on an answer.
She does want to know how much longer he'll be, however, and then, all of a sudden, she doesn't need to ask anymore. There's a warmth on the back of her neck; the difference between his soft puffs of breath and the warm breeze is small, but distinct to her, and despite all this, the small kiss he leaves there is unmistakable.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"What were you thinking about?"
She pauses, and casts a last, knowing look at the honeysuckle, which she knows will keep her secret. "Mass destruction and the end of the world," she answers, casting her eyes up to him.
He asks for no explanation as he takes her hand and pulls her to her feet, and simply passes her the ice cream cone she pleaded for him to get ten minutes previously. She in turn gratefully accepts, and offers him nothing further as they quietly continue their path to nowhere.
~ * ~ * ~