shakespearewasreal
His hand slipped around my waist. I leaned my head back, resting against his shoulder. His breath was warm on my nose like a soft breeze.
"Whatcha doing?" He asked, almost whispering.
I grasped the wooden spoon in my hand, "Cooking."
"I'm fine." I said, perhaps a little loudly then I had meant to.
She looked at me, an eyebrow raised, "No you're not."
I groaned, "Yes I am!" This time I was openly yelling.
She raised her hands, as if she was giving up which I knew was not true. "You're fine, I'm fine."
Her eyes reflected the hot flames dancing in front of her. All the though the bitter cold picked at her like a swarm of wasps, her hands were warm and soft from the fire. Deep inside the the flames she could see her and her husband, dancing on the night of their wedding, her red and orange dress swirling in a long train behind her. Her husband's smile flickered. Perhaps it was the hunger making her see such mirages. She stared at her husband, her heart aching at his unstable form and she slowly closed her eyes.
His hands rubbed together as if he was trying to create a fire with his callused palms. His gray eyes scanned the even grayer sky as small drops of rain splashed down on his rosewood hair. His tattered clothes clung to his body like a bug trapped in spiderwebs. He was told to hold the fort but he sick, tired, and could feel death tie around him like a stone sinking in murky water.
I could feel my hands sweating as I neatly folded them on the cold, metal table. My lips felt like they were glued together but I slowly pried them open like a rusty bear trap.
"I have a bargain to propose." I dryly said, not meeting their eyes.
writing since 2014 · 6 entries · 6 days shown up
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eyeshandsfinetryingsilentcoldslowlyfireflamesdancingwarmsofthusbandraisedhandgazing