First no this is not the only thing I wrote on this Wednesday (I’m not that lazy or that busy) but it is the one getting put out on Wednesday. Actually wrote three little scene’s today I’ll plan on putting out another of them in a day of two. I hope this scene is as sweet as nostalgic youth so I’ll stop typing and leave you to it.
Her skirt brushes across the wood floor her hand stretched out, knee’s pulled together. He sits with his legs crossed hand stretched out to her. Their hands join on the icy floor the flow of chilled air rolling along the wood and through their fingers. The TV plays pointlessly in front of them the flashing images being paid no attention by the two of them.
“What now?” her black hair floats across the floor turning with her blushing cheeks.
“What ahh,” A blush plagues the boy, tuffs of hair winding around his ears, “I guess we could kiss, but…”
“I’ll kiss you on our wedding,” she says turning to the TV, “what else can we do?”
“We could scoot closer, if you want,” his voice comes out with a crack.
Looking away to the chirping of birds on the power line she answer’s, pulling his hand to her leg, his hand brushing against her skirt, a mess of sweat building between their fingers. The floor creaks as he inches his way over, her breath comes out shorter, their hands enclose.
“I think,” her voice stops with the chirping birds, “ I like you very much, “ her shoulder brushes against his as she leans onto him, “ I think we should talk,” she says nudging his wooly head with hers. “What should we talk about then?” He stutters her scent wrapping around him, her fingers interlacing around his beating heart.
“Do you like children? What do you see in the future? How often do you visit the shrine? I want to know you better, is that alright?”
“I’m pretty good with children, I have no dreams for the future and I don’t visit shrine’s… is that alright?”
Beyond the hammering of his heart and the chirping or birds the room falls silent.
“That’s hardly a conversation,” she says giggling as she rests her head on his, “Let’s try again, how are you with children?”
The two of them chatter in the summer heat, the boy nervous at first but warming with the heat between their hands. The idle talk of youth blooms and blossoms drifting from children to parents to pets their voices carrying a melancholic song to the birds perching along the line.
Mad Man's House 