Since the Haunt season is finally over and I have a social life (writer’s lie), I am trying to get my writing juices flowing. I challenged myself today, to come up with a short story within my hour lunch break. I wrote the following in 40 minutes. Although, I could elaborate a whole lot more, I decided to keep it short. I haven’t edited it, so here you go:
The deceitful breeze poured through the hollow, metal pipes that chimed as it greeted them. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of my dampened hair as the same humid wind kissed my already baked skin. I released a tiresome sigh as I squeezed the freshly cut lemon over my cupped hand, allowing the pulp to rest in my fingers.
My bulging belly was an obstacle while leaning over the porcelain sink, but I was happy. I was happy and swollen with pregnancy and love. Now, I’m covered in lemon juice and sugar for the sake of the men weeding my garden behind the back porch. I wasn’t allowed to strain myself for the tomatoes and bell peppers, but I insisted on allowing me to make lemonade and tea. Gratefully.
I stirred the tall glass pitcher filled with yellow deliciousness and rattled off to a daydream with the rhythm of the wooden spoon. A day dream that I had often, reflecting upon my husband. I watched as his arms glistened and tighten as he pulled the straggly weeds from the dark, damp, coffee ground earth. Just as they had the evening of our wedding day. I imagined running my fingertips over his flexing biceps and feeling the most loved I had ever felt.
I run my hand over my incubated child and wondered at which point had he been conceived. Our life was filled with so much passion in our first few months as newlyweds, I couldn’t count. I ran my hand on the cold countertop and remembered our romantic nights spent cooking (more than just supper).
“Honey, are ya almost done with them cool dranks?”
I snapped from my haze and called out the kitchen window, “Sorry, darlin’! I’m just waitin on the tea to boil!”
Oh, the tea. I glanced over at the boiling kettle and anticipated it to whistle. I slowly poured the steaming liquid into the plastic pitcher and over the already measured grains of snowy white sugar. As if floating in a hot spring, the tea bags bounced in the current and melted away their bitter sorrows. I again, returned to the window, pretending to hopefully be captured by another breeze, intending to absorb the magnificent body of my husband’s older brother (who also was seen catching a peek).
Biting my lip, I find myself in another flashback while admirably studying his wide, muscular shoulders and the shadow of his beard. His hazel eyes staring deeply into mine as my legs rested against them and my fingers entwined with a hay bale. Surprising cold chills resurfaced from memory and I could feel his breath against my chest while my mind recited his profession of love. My presently swollen feet curled my toes against the hardwood and I stirred the tea quietly, feeling overjoyed with so much love. How could a girl be so lucky? How could my heart feel so much for two people?
Both loves feel incredibly different, but incredibly intense in their own unique way. Growing up, I thought love was just a word, something you feel for certain people. There were no dimensions, no differentiating levels other than family, friends, spouse. Why did it have to be segregated? Why was this rule in place that I could only have just one?
I pulled the clear, thin, drinking glasses from the cupboard, swirling my heart through my interrogative mind. I basked in the cool breath of the icebox, selecting cubes and allowing one to sizzle against my skin.
One glass of lemonade for my hardworking, ever-loving, beautiful husband. One glass of sweet tea for my magnificent, protective, lover. And a glass of half tea, half lemonade for me. Why couldn’t I have both? A dilemma no less, but I am happy, fat, and in love.
It may not be the best, but it definitely peaks an interest into the rest of the story.