The street is bustling beside them, and pedestrians crowd them as they walk hand in hand down the sidewalk. An evening autumn breeze begins to pick up, blowing around Anne's red locks, causing them to brush against her lover's arm, tickling it.
Anne grips his hand tighter as the breeze grows stronger, and because she despises the cold so, she pulls his arm into her torso; still holding his hand, but now resting her other hand on his wrist. The more physical contact the better--for warmths sake, she tells herself.
She feels a soft pressing of lips to her head, and lifts her lovely blue eyes to meet a pair of hazel ones. No matter how many times she's seen it-- the intensity of his gaze will never cease to cause her to blush. Chuckling, Anne lowers her eyes as they continue to walk, and the crowds begin to thin as they near their destination.
Soon the suburbans are far behind them, and the soft glow of the surrounding houses offer a sort of calming ambience. Even though they've walked through this very neighborhood far too many times to count, and though they have it memorized like the back of one's hand, or better yet, each other's hand, (goodness knows how long they've spent admiring the other's hand, memorizing each freckle and each crease, planting kisses on them, or grasping them tightly.) the magic of the little neighborhood will never fade.
The couple stops at a little house, with red shingles and a large chimney. Most of the windows are glowing with golden light, and the shadows of little figures are running around inside. Suddenly, dropping his lover's hand for the first time since their stroll began, Gilbert stoops down and scoops Anne into his arms, a boyish grin growing on his face.
Anne shrieks, and smacks him playfully. "Gil! We're hardly newlyweds."
He kisses her squarely on the lips. "And why should newlyweds get to have all the fun? Why shouldn't I get to carry my wife, into our house, if I so please?"
"What if," Anne says softly, "She were to tell you that she'd prefer to walk inside herself, for fear that her husband would trip over his own two feet, and send her and her unborn child flying?"
"He would not," pouts Gilbert, trying to feign up a hurt expression. "He seems to recall his beautiful wife of his, calling him 'light on his feet,' when they were young."
Before she can think of an answer back, the front door slams open, and five small children come running down the front steps, squealing and chattering happily about how much they missed them, and how glad they are that they are back. The eldest, Joy, appears in the doorway, smiling apologetically at her parents, as her father awkwardly places her mother back on the ground.
"All we did was walk to the coffee shop on Main Street and back, and you missed us that much?" Gilbert laughs, beaming at his children.
"Come, my dears. Inside we go." Anne leads the family of eight into the house, smiling fondly at them, before shutting the door of their house of dreams behind them.
