Felicity over on The Dark Night Chronicles has issued her Friday Flash and in my opinion it’s her best yet! I am not sure anything I write can do her prompt justice but here I go…
The corn, glowing golden in the July sunshine, the same shade as the hair that cascaded down her back in long, loose curls. The cloudless sapphire sky, the same shade as her sparkling, laughing eyes; always laughing and joyful when she was with him. Her laughter was like music for him and his goal was always to elicit more from her. Her face, when she smiled, was more than beautiful to him, he had no words to describe to her how perfect she was in his eyes.
Instead he showed her his love, his devotion, his worship. He showed her by touching her the way she needed to be touched, by kissing her the way she needed to be kissed; by holding her in his arms the way her husband wouldn’t. He showed her by making love to her; slowly, tenderly, furiously, roughly, passionately, fiercely. His mouth devoured her most intimate places, his tongue teased strangled cries of pleasure from her throat, his hands and eyes knew every exquisite inch of her. Whatever she needed when she came to him, he gave her, unquestioningly, unconditionally, unabashedly.
He wanted her for himself, frequently begged her to be his alone. Tears fell as she shook her head. For her, it was a hopeless situation. She said she was trapped. She couldn’t see a way out. She would plead with him to not ruin what precious little time they shared together, running her hands over his chest, trying to distract him with her body and mouth. He always gave in to her. He could never resist her. He could never get enough of her.
They lay, spent, in each other’s arms on the worn out mattress, in the tiny wooden cabin, which was really more of a shed than anything else, every Saturday, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, chests heaving, limbs entangled and intertwined. He ran his fingers through her damp hair, cherishing her, his nose buried in her curls, intoxicated by her scent, whispering softly to her as she drifted into a sated slumber.
“Savannah, my sweet, sweet, sweet Savannah.”
Afterwards, they would dress and talk about small things, never acknowledging the spectre of sadness in the small room, never discussing the fact she was going home to her husband, his brother.
His eyes scan the horizon, taking in the passing cars on the twisty rural mountain road, lined with woods and wild rhododendron, the old farmsteads grazing sheep, cattle and horses, and the abundant cornfields.
Every Saturday, he sits in his orange Kubota; then he waited in his truck for her, to take her up to their makeshift rendezvous; now, he remembers the afternoons of laughter and lovemaking they shared before it ended.
Removing his baseball cap to wipe the sweat off his brow, he shakes his head; ended.
It didn’t end. It was ended for them.
That last Saturday she was nervous, distracted and fidgety. He felt the resistance in her body as he held and kissed her. As his fingers lifted her shirt, her hands flew to stop him, confusing him. She had never denied him before. She was usually more than eager to be naked with him, greedy for him.
“Savvie, what’s wrong? What is it?” he frowned down at her, noticing the tremble in her bottom lip, “Jesus Savannah! Tell me!”
Shaking her head as the tears began to run down her cheeks, she leaned against him, all strength leaving her body. Wrapping his arms around her tightly, she gasped and flinched in pain and cried out. Hands on her shoulders he pulled back from her and looked at her face, her eyes refusing to meet his.
“Savvie, if you don’t let me see, if you don’t take off your shirt, I’m gonna take it off for you,” he hated sounding so cruel and forceful with her, but he had to know if his suspicions were in fact true.
“Please… please Jake, don’t ask me to,” weeping softly. He reached over and lifted the hem of her shirt and pulled it up, recoiling at the angry bruises that patterned her stomach and ribs.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him…” he growled, running from the room to his truck outside, gunning the engine and leaving a cloud of dust as he sped down the dirt lane.
Wiping his eyes as he once again felt the weight of regret and guilt settle on him, remembering her face as she slammed open the door to her kitchen, finding him and his brother on the floor, bloody and clawing at each other like two pit bulls, her screaming for them to stop.
Remembering his brother scrambling to his feet and launching himself at her, his fist connecting squarely with her cheek, sending her flying across the front porch. Remembering being unable to make it to his own feet in time to stop his bastard brother kick her in the stomach, and then the sickening crack as his boot met her head. Remembering his own screams as he watched his Savannah being beaten to a bloody pulp, unable to make his legs support his weight, his vision blurring and feeling himself float away into unconsciousness, the last thing he saw was her once beautiful face, ruined by his brother’s rage.
Every Saturday, he sits in his tractor until sunset, at the top of the lane leading to their cabin and he grieves for her, for them, for their lost future and the life they will never have.
Grieving for the rendezvous that will never happen again.