Epilogue The Performer
Epilogue
The Performer
The mountains guided coastal winds through the river valley.
This time of year was lighter in all ways, more vivid in all ways, than can be interpreted by the senses.
The mountains greened as they met the river, its waters a seamless match with the cerulean sky.
The town a beating heart in the distance, a humble steeple keeping steadfast watch for centuries, and it would continue to do so for many more.
The sky concentrated from blues to soft pinks and reds. My cheeks tingled, burnt as proof of my daily devotion to the sun. A testimonial to freedom. Basking in it every day.
A wreath of apricot blossoms adorned our villa’s front door, the sweet smell of them greeting us every time it opened and closed.
My window was shaded by the surrounding trees, the orchard blossoms beginning to wilt and flutter through the sky, littering the ground in preparation for the next growth.
Waterfowl picked at the overgrown clover, sheep and goats bleated behind the wooden fencing. Two Pastous panted in the shade, attentive to their flock.
Arkady sat across from me, packing his pipe beside the open window. The curtain fluttered behind him like a gentle ghost. His skin was deep and sun-kissed, his eyes richer and without stress. He lit the pipe, taking a deep breath before he looked over to me.
I smoothed my hands over my dress, the linen soft under my palms. My ring all the brighter against the stark white.
It had been reset for a more comfortable fit, fashioned with two new pearls, one on each side.
Made with my own tastes in mind. The sunset sky competed with the ruby, to no avail.
It sparkled as I placed my teacup on its saucer.
I touched Arkady’s hand, and he grasped it gently from across the table.
“They should be fruiting soon,” he hummed, focused on the orchard outside.
“Not too soon, but it looks like they’ll be plentiful, based on the buds.” I turned his hand in my palms, clay under his nails. My eyes flicked up to him. “Spring serves those who are inspired, doesn’t it?”
His smile softer, his fingers left my hand to brush over my forehead, tucking hair behind my ear.
At one point, the less-than-immediate answer would have worried me, angered me.
Now I knew all good things came with time, even if it was just finding the perfect string of words to make a moment priceless. Sometimes that meant no words at all.
When he pulled his hand back, a moth pitched from my shoulder. It landed in my tea, quivering, leaving a dusting of chitin powdering the cup. The tea stained the chalky-white wings as red as its eyespot pattern. The sprite drowned.
Arkady’s brow rose, followed by relaxed shoulders. A leisurely shrug followed by our silent admission.
I held the cup, turning it between my fingers, before lifting it to my lips and taking a sip.
We both sat in leisure, watching as the last sliver of sun dampened over the horizon. One of many fluttering moments that would sculpt the rest of our days, nights, years.
No matter how long, nothing changed. We grew together like the orchard—slow, steady, trusting that spring would come, the sun would rise, and nature embraced.