It's here, it's here! It's time for another Friday full of fiction, and today is extra exciting because it is the first week that Fiction on Friday is an official link up! I want this to be a place where people can get together and really express their creativity, as well as get some insight on their works. Feel free to provide a link to any recent fiction piece on your blog, or to write a new one on Fridays like I do. I don't expect much traffic to be here the first couple of weeks, so if anyone wants to help me spread the word that would be awesome! If you do participate, make sure to grab a button and add it to your post!
Let's get to writing, shall we?
Today's piece is a continuation of the first series I introduced here on the blog. Here are links to the first three parts:
Four (Part 1)
Yellow (Part 2)
Trust Me (Part 3)
She sits across the ancient wooden table from me, her auburn hair falling messily across her shoulders and in front of her face. Her eyes stay locked on the oversized coffee mug before her, watching the monotonous flick of her hand as she absentmindedly stirs her steaming beverage.
My attempts at small talk have been failing since I arrived at the airport. Icy silence had filled the space between us on the drive to her house, and then followed us through the front door as well.
"You can put your stuff in the guest bedroom. I'll make some coffee."
That was the most profound sentence to come from her mouth. I'm still not sure if I should be angry or understanding, but I am trying my hardest to stick to the understanding route.
"Business must be good..." I say as I stand up from the table, walking across the tiny dining area to stand before her work station. Dozens of unfinished watercolor paintings lay strewn across her desk, creating a collage of contradicting scenes. I pick up the picture closest to me; one of a wooden wagon in an overgrown field. The wagon didn't have wheels yet, but I could still tell what it was going to be.
She has always been so talented.
"Well, it's paying the bills if that's what you mean," she responds, the clanking of the spoon against her mug becoming louder.
I drop the painting back onto the desk and look out of the open window...the largest window in her tiny house. Her desk is in this exact spot for that reason. She is fond of the natural light it provides. I can still remember the day that we set up her work station. She had been offered her first freelance painting gig, creating unique paintings for a boutique in a city about 45 minutes away. She is now under contract with at least 15 different artsy stores, yet her work space and her lifestyle haven't changed a single bit.
Her simplicity is one of her best qualities. I wasn't always able to see that.
The sky above the pine trees is slowly darkening; the clear blue being replaced by rolling gray.
I turn away from the window and once again join her at the table. She is now picking flakes of worn white paint off of the surface, being careful not to look at me as I sit down.
"From the looks of the sky, we will be stuck inside tonight," I say. I'm actually kind of thankful for the storm. Hopefully the close proximity will result in some forced conversation...some much needed conversation.
"Great," she grunts, scraping her fingernail more vigorously against the paint. The noise is like nails on a chalkboard.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I stick my arm out and clasp my hand around hers, holding it still. I feel her tense up, and she finally looks me in the eye. The stare she gives me is full of frustration, and through narrowed eyes, but I'm still thankful for it.
She snatches her hand away and grabs her coffee off of the table.
"What are you even doing here, Cody? This makes absolutely no sense," she spits at me before she turns to stalk into the kitchen. I hear the cup and spoon make violent contact with the sink, followed by a string of muffled profanities.
I lay my head down on the table and the rough surface quickly irritates my cheek.
How stupid was I to think that this could ever be an easy task?