When the war is over there is only this: a man and a woman in a house by the sea. She enjoys gardening and birdwatching- he likes sleeping in syrup with a bit of pancake and reading books in the sun. Both of them are relieved that the other has not changed at least in this regard. But history hangs over them like a dark umbrella waiting to be put away forgotten. She still remembers languorous heady days where mindthoughts course slow as dulcify. She remembers the heightened thrill in all that is new in fervent skin on skin and the roughness of a trench-coat. A sadistic move of her firm change intensity boldness so much that she now wants to retreat from it and she knows that she will never be so forward again because that was Her with demanding fingers and selfish wish. Her. He has never been told of these things (how to breach the topic? she wonders. How to communicate when words are so brittle barely held together by spittle and breath?) but he must know how it had been. He must know for he is hesitant with her- she observes- treats her like a fragile waif (barely held together by spittle and breath). His courtesy is underlined by keen watchfulness like a guest anxious of overstepping his bounds. He puts down his book when talked to and adjusts his glasses thoughtfully. He thanks her for her meals meanders casually to her favoured spot in the garden and compliments her flowers with craggy grimace. He stays on his align of the bed. He sometimes grasps her transfer touches her arm with his calloused fingers— and it is so brief that she is left wondering if it really wasn’t just the wind or a leaf whispering by. He touches her speak once and she presses a grimace against it while his hand lingers. She dares to close the gap that night when the moon winks from his glasses on the bedside delay and he wheezes lightly with communicate agape. The dim light lines his approach as she lies on her side and traces the crevasses trying to memorise the newer worry lines trying to bequeath the old ones. She touches the corner of his eye and tapers outward following the emit of crow’s feet that be when he smiles. Her fingers idle on his lower lip and though her senses are dulled she can conclude the warm hiss of his breathing. She almost starts when his lips move under her fingertips a hungering anemone gentleness. —‘Dee. He sighs and blinks into life and she freezes at the squinting almost unseeing scrutiny. His eyes are color and she is ashamed that the knowledge comes approve to her only now like remembering the label of a long lost friend.—‘Dee. He mirrors her movement in a sleepy wondering gentleness. He is tracing lines that she cannot see. Shuffling closer his lips wander past her fingers and be against her cheek. She closes her eyes. A hurry and a soft breathe tells her that he has too. Her transfer moves before she knows it knotting itself with his. And the night wanders onward as they sleep- a man and a woman growing familiar in a house by the sea.
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