Hey...this is just something I've been tooling around with, let me know what you think.
It was Saturday, endless sun infiltrating their home, nothing to do but nothing. Potential floated around in the shadows of the sunlight, hiding under tables and chairs. She sat at the kitchen table, the gingham table cover meandering in the southern breeze. She stared intensely at the sweat dropping down her glass of fresh lemonade.
The screendoor on the side porch squeaked and slammed periodically with the gusts of wind that were to bring a storm that night. It squeaked open without wind and she looked up to the entryway like a dear hearing a twig snap in November; there he stood.
his hands were rough - and not unnecessarily so. There was grime under his nails and swipes of dirt on his sweaty face. He looked at her fearful face and smiled to himself. He sat across from her at the table. "May I have some?" he said pointing at her glass. "Go wash up, you're disgusting," she replied as she went to pour his lemonade. He obeyed silently, the dirt coming off immediately, the grime taking some effort. He sat down again and raised the glass to his lips. He smirked and motioned for her to once again take a seat. She raised an eyebrow and moved slowly to take her place on his lap. She talked town gossip to his deaf ears, he drank his lemonade (too bitter as always). He waited until she was too distracted with what the neighbors were up to to object and he slid his hand up her thigh. "Stop it, you hands are too rough." she interrupted herself.
They ended up lying together on the bed...sunshine dappling their bare skin. She ran her relaxed hands through his hair slowly as she smirked up to the sky. His head lay just below her navel, upon a womb in which he had no vested interest.
"I'm pregnant" she said blankly.
It was Saturday, endless sun infiltrating their home, nothing to do but nothing. Potential floated around in the shadows of the sunlight, hiding under tables and chairs. She sat at the kitchen table, the gingham table cover meandering in the southern breeze. She stared intensely at the sweat dropping down her glass of fresh lemonade.
The screendoor on the side porch squeaked and slammed periodically with the gusts of wind that were to bring a storm that night. It squeaked open without wind and she looked up to the entryway like a dear hearing a twig snap in November; there he stood.
his hands were rough - and not unnecessarily so. There was grime under his nails and swipes of dirt on his sweaty face. He looked at her fearful face and smiled to himself. He sat across from her at the table. "May I have some?" he said pointing at her glass. "Go wash up, you're disgusting," she replied as she went to pour his lemonade. He obeyed silently, the dirt coming off immediately, the grime taking some effort. He sat down again and raised the glass to his lips. He smirked and motioned for her to once again take a seat. She raised an eyebrow and moved slowly to take her place on his lap. She talked town gossip to his deaf ears, he drank his lemonade (too bitter as always). He waited until she was too distracted with what the neighbors were up to to object and he slid his hand up her thigh. "Stop it, you hands are too rough." she interrupted herself.
They ended up lying together on the bed...sunshine dappling their bare skin. She ran her relaxed hands through his hair slowly as she smirked up to the sky. His head lay just below her navel, upon a womb in which he had no vested interest.
"I'm pregnant" she said blankly.
