He was a peasant, a man of the soil. Or so he claimed.
She never believed him. He owned a farm house, but someone else owned the barn and fields. His hands were huge and strong, but sensitive. A potter’s hands.
“You’re an artist,” she said. “Admit it.”
They were in bed, katydids singing through the window screens.
“Don’t call me that, girl.”
“I could call you worse.”
“Yes. An old artist.”
“No! I wouldn’t!”
His hands were on her, transforming her indignation, and they kissed.
Out beyond the barn and the fields that were not theirs, heat lightening flickered.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #345 at Velvet Verbosity.
Wonderful dialogue.
Absolutely lovely!
How wonderfully romantic!
Such beautiful stories you weave. I feel honored to get to read them. To see them, to be in them.
Thank you for your very encouraging comments, and also for your blog and the 100 Word Challenge! I love this length.