West Virginia in the Summertime

She sits on the porch, sipping lemonade, wishing there was vodka in it. And more ice. She’s taking a break from painting the porch railing. The temperature is what a good writer would call sultry. In reality it’s so fucking hot out! The thermometer is hovering around 95 degrees, the humidity at a steady 87%. But the ground, the ground has been sucked dry due to lack of rain. The grass is no longer grass, but straw. Dry and dead. The only thing that’s thriving are her hanging baskets of flowers. They are hanging from the porch overhang. They’re beautiful, bright, colorful. Every color of the Spectrum, is in those baskets.

She sets down the empty glass, and is already thirsty for more precious, sweet liquid. She picks up her brush, dips it in the paint can. The color is white. Like eggshell. Boring. But what color would you paint a railing? The color of flowers offsets the blah color of the paint. She starts the upward and downward motion of painting. It’s mundane, boring, and yet she is sweating profusely. The sun is making her the color of the pink petals. The color of  the flowers in her gardens scattered around their home.

She smiles, and thinks of him. His dark hair, his dark eyes that she could drown in. The soul patch on his chin. He’s in bed sleeping off the hours that he just worked. Resting so they can spend their evening together. She thinks to herself, why am I not in there with him? Why am I out in this damn heat in the middle of the day? She puts the lid on the paint can and places the brush in a plastic bag so she can use it later that day. Or maybe tomorrow.  She doesn’t even wash the dried paint from her hands.

She enters the house and feels instant relief from the central air conditioner. She’s greeted by her menagerie of dogs and cats. Her furry children. She walks to the bedroom where he sleeps. Stands before their bed, and removes her clothes. She pulls the covers back and lays down next to him. She presses her form to his. He wakes, turns his head, looks into her azure eyes and smiles. A sly smile. A smile that melts her heart and her body. Cools her but warms her instantly. He kisses her nose. Her sweet, little button nose. As he pulls back to look at her beautiful face, he sees a streak of white paint across the bridge of her nose. He smiles, tells her that he loves her, and kisses her nose again.

About these ads

7 thoughts on “West Virginia in the Summertime

  1. She smiles, and thinks of him. His dark hair, his dark eyes that she could drown in. The soul patch on his chin. He’s in bed sleeping off the hours that he just worked. Resting so they can spend their evening together. She thinks to herself, why am I not in there with him? Why am I out in this damn heat in the middle of the day? She puts the lid on the paint can and places the brush in a plastic bag so she can use it later that day. Or maybe tomorrow. She doesn’t even wash the dried paint from her hands.

    Jesue Renee, that’s beautiful.

    • Thanks so much Susannah. It just fell out of my head when I looked at the picture that a friend of mine took. It was a mix of her, a mix of me, a mix of others that I know. Thanks for the sweetest comment ever.

  2. Renee…this was sexy as fuck!!!!!! You have said many times, you don’t read romance novels….girl…you sure the fuck could write one….or two….now, this is Tracy…I want one written about me….well, Tracy is easier to write romantically about….but I want a story…I want a story….lol

    • Thanks Tracy. Give me a picture. Something simple, and I will give you a story. It’ll be good, I promise. Giggle. And thanks for the compliments. You made me blush.

  3. On the one hand, I’m so glad you ended it there.

    On the other, I so desperately wish you hadn’t.

    You seem to be quite all right with this whole “writing” thing, m’dear… =)

    • I kinda like leaving the rest of the story up to the imagination of the reader. Did they make love, did they sleep, did they get in the bath and wash each other’s hair? Did they stand naked in the kitchen and drink coffee? We’ll never know. Unless of course I write about them again. Who knows t, I just might. Thanks for the sweet words my dear.

  4. Pingback: A Split Apart « Rendezvous With Renee

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s