a muted country scene:
The old wooden fence she is sitting on is about to break under her weight; splinters are digging through her worn jeans. The field of dried out, long brown grass in front of her wavers as wind rolls over it.
“What do you want?” he says, standing behind her, eyes fixed on her shoulder.
“You.”
He stares at the strands of hair that are falling out of her loose ponytail. “What else do you want?”
She pauses, turns her head sideways so she can see him out of the corner of her eye. “You.”
He considers reaching out to touch her, brush his fingers across hers or push the hair back from her face, but he doesn’t. “Okay. I can do that.”
He stays still, and waits until she reaches back for him first, fingers catching blindly on the sleeve of his shirt and twisting in to grip him tightly and keep him close.
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