a story. part 9.

her pile of wet clothes was still damp and she was at her canvass painting when the door opened and he walked in - quietly. her heart felt better because he was close, but it sensed something was upside down.
he dropped his bag in the corner and went to to the balcony. he said he needed some air. that his flight had been long and his trip had been hard.
she said she understood and picked up her brush and the blue paint.

she was painting the sky. it was infinite and mighty and it was helping her remember to look up instead of down.
she wanted to tell him about standing in the rain. she needed him to hear about how drenched she got and how much she felt in that moment. but he had shut the door to their tiny balcony and any word she said would just bounce off the glass back at her.

she had never been good with silence.

her toes felt like they were sinking into the floor. but she kept painting, waiting for him to come inside. to put his arms around her and tell her he missed her while he was away. but after awhile, her waist got tired of waiting for him. and her heart got scared of what his might say to it. she didn't know what to do. so she put her paints away and just sat. she never just sat. it felt poisonous.

he stayed outside until night - until it was dark and cold and he had to come in because he hadn't put enough layers on for the sudden drop in temperature. even the tomato plants were reacting to the chill. nearly shriveling before their eyes. she hoped it wasn't an omen for what was to come. she didn't know if she could handle a cold spring.