“We could live here,” he whispers, softly softly, into her hair.
Her breathe rises and falls against him, her hand laid gently on his chest, her fingers bunching his shirt in places, finding their way beneath it in others. Her head rests in the crook between his neck and shoulder. We fit, he’s thought to himself on more than one occasion, just like two pieces of the same puzzle. He’s always kept the thought to himself, though. He doesn’t want to be one of those kids forcing puzzle pieces together what were never meant to be. All that led to was mismatched pieces with their edges ragged and torn. And sometimes figuring the puzzles wasn’t so easy. Sometimes you’d find two pieces that you were sure were right – same colour and everything – only to find that they really weren’t.
She shifts, ever so slightly, and he holds his breathe tight in his chest so as not to wake her with his own moving. She looks so perfect, her baby-corn hair catching the light so it looked almost white, her face so peaceful, a smile just nudging at her lips. He loves her. He’s sure of it. He thought he might’ve been in love before, with other girls, when they smiled at him all shylike; when they danced with him not shylike at all. But he’s never felt it in his heart like he did now, like he does with her. The others made him excited when they touched him, but her… She makes him excited just being in the same room, just being in the same house or street or city. He can feel when she was nearby, and his heart just won’t stop pounding for all the corn in Kansas.
He takes his eyes off her to try to calm his chest before the sound makes her stir. He looks around the small barn. It’s nothing special. Just wooden planks, rotted in places even, and bales of straw strewn throughout, forgotten about for months on end by the earthy smell of them. But when the rays fall just right through the slits in the wall, he can see it for what it could be. That corner over there’d be where they’ll put the table so they can eat breakfast looking out over the field in Spring. And back there’ll be alright for a bath. He could hang curtains so she’ll have privacy if she wants. And that loft will make a great room for the two of them, hung with beads and dreamcatchers and those windchimes she likes so that the wind’ll catch them through that window right there when there’ll be so much as a breeze.
“We could live here,” he whispers again, nodding and smiling to himself as he looks down at her, his arms around her, her one hand on his chest, her other on her growing belly. He glances over at the small suitcase lying against the wall.
“We found our puzzle piece of sky.”
Okay, I have fallen waaaaaaayyyyy behind this week. This is my 500 words on Sunday’s prompt. I’ve also decided to include the prompts that inspired the stories underneath each one so others can take part if they would like to 🙂
Title: Abandoned Dust Bowl Home (1940)
By: Dorothea Lange, photographer (American, 1895 – 1965)
Credit: Link to original
Write at least 500 words: about the creation of this art, the subject/topic it brings to mind, the period in which the art is done, or how it makes you feel. Maybe tell a story from the artwork’s perspective.