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God, he was massive, a brute made of muscle and sinew. He belonged to the earth he tilled, cut from stone, hair black as a raven, eyes blue as the sea. Beautiful in the rugged, wild way, unpolished and unrefined and unquestionably right just the way he was.
He’d heard every word I’d said, stored it all in his dumb puppy brain, and drew it up with the ease of a long-practiced artist.
“I like to think we accept the love we think we deserve, like the old adage says. If you meet as equals, there’s nothing to hide. And if you’re so certain everyone’s out to hurt you, you’ll probably end up hurt.”
She was a tree aflame with autumn. The strike of a match, embers and sparks. A sunset that set the sky on fire.
It was said that everyone was the hero of their own story, and the reason was context. Everyone, regardless of honesty or truth, showed people what they wanted to see. In that, Lila was right. But every heart had a story to tell. A reason. A series of events that, when strung together in the right order, created a person’s self, their motivation and fears.
“Nature’s a curious thing. Sometimes it disguises one thing as another, hides its nature to protect it.”
“Sorry I got you all dirty,” I said, fingering the collar of her white shirt where it was smudged with grime from its pile on the greenhouse floor. “Please, get me dirty anytime you want.” She stretched up on her tiptoes to press a swift kiss to my lips, then turned, tucking in her shirt.
