Calling Andrew finished feeding and watering the red and white roses along the wrought iron gate in the cool of the early morning. He put the hose back on its stand and stood looking at the newly trimmed bushes. Sometimes just looking at these flowers brought so much pleasure; the feast of color was enough to help him appreciate how hard he worked. In his convalescence after being pulled off the flight schedule, Anne had taken over where his excellent rose tending techniques had left off. She was as capable a caretaker of them as he was; it had been one of the things that made them compatible from the beginning of their relationship and subsequent marriage. Andrew walked through the arbor into the back yard and returned the plant food to the shed. Suddenly, a soft sound came to him and he stopped and lifted his head to catch it. His wife�s voice came to him, gently insistent. She would be in the house making breakfast. He emerged from the arbor and came around the side of the house, stopping as he caught sight of her. She was a pretty picture, he thought, standing on the bottom step holding a fork in one hand and a cordless phone in the other hand. He stood back and rested a loving gaze on her. A white bandana held back her chestnut hair. He seemed rooted to the spot, letting his gaze travel over her small face, pausing at the smudges of flour on her cheeks. His eyes moved to her neck, to her covered breasts, her blue cotton dress only slightly disguising the rest of her figure. With Anne�s summer school session ended and Andrew off the flight schedule at least for a few more days, she only attempted to be comfortable. Her husband who had spent the last week in a fogged, feverish existence appreciated her for such casual attire. Anne was always classy, he thought, even in a summer house dress and a white bandana. �Andrew!� she said, gently, knowing his thoughts by the far away look in his eyes, �you act as if you�ve never seen me before. Hello. This is your wife, Anne, remember me?� She came up close to him, putting her head on his shoulder. �Hey you my hot shot pilot! I called you three times!� She caught his hand, played with the fingers, brushing dirt away, her look half-teasing, half annoyed. �I swear you�re so distracted, sometimes. Flying planes in your head?� She pushed back his hair knowing it wasn�t a plane he was flying in his head. She teased him with her eyes and stopped short of distracting him any further. �Hey, you! The phone is for you! You better take this call!� �This early in the morning?� he said, reluctant to take the phone, giving her a desirous look, wanting to take her in his arms right here in the rose garden with her dress smudged with flour and dirt under his nails; right here, just the two of them. She suddenly pressed the phone into his hand. �I�ll be here,� she whispered seductively, �okay? I�ll wait.� The pilot walked to a bench in the rose garden and sat down, breathing in the soft fragrance of the early summer morning. Soon the sun would beat down with a ferocity that would send humans and animals scurrying for cover. But for now, in the coolness of the fresh morning, he held the phone and listened intently to the other voice on the line. He nodded a few times, grunting his acknowledgement of the words. Andrew was generally a man of few words and now he proved his point by answering in monosyllabic phrases. He nodded to Anne who came out and put two coffee cups on a table between them. He reached out and took the cup, letting his hand rest in Anne�s, still listening intently. Anne touched Andrew�s wedding ring and curled his fingers. She had put a wet rag on the tray and now she began to clean his nails. He pushed her hand gently away, gestured for her to wait, took the cup and put it to his lips. Andrew grunted again, said something, and pushed the button to end the conversation. He put the phone down on the little table. His gaze came back to his wife who sat across from him now. She took his other hand and cleaned the nails. A comfortable silence lay between them, genial, compatible and gentle. Andrew�s eyes wandered to the eaves at the side of the house where some wrens were building a nest. He looked back to Anne as she finished her nail cleaning and kept her hands in his hands. Somehow they needed to say no words. Their eyes caught and quietly he got up and came to meet her. She fit into his embrace, put her head on his shoulder, nuzzled him. �You want breakfast?� she said into his ear. �Hmmm. You know what I want.� �It�s not breakfast,� she whispered, letting him take her face into his hands and kiss it. The phone, the birds, the roses, the flour smudges, and the cool balmy morning disappeared in a sudden burst of desire. Suddenly it was Anne who led her husband to a shady spot on the grass well hidden from prying eyes and led him to fulfillment. The bonding between them seemed enhanced only by the presence of the grass and the flowers. She curled herself near him, putting her head on his chest, feeling his warmth, his live, breathing body beside her. �Now,� she said easily, letting her fingers slide through his hair, massaging the scalp, �are you going to tell me who that was?� He took her hair into his hands and uncurled it, rapped it around his fingers and laughed almost in relief, knowing he still wanted her. He began his slow, easy preparatory movements to their next session, speaking the words into her hair. �It was John. He wants me back. He�s frantic.� �Are you going today?� Anne asked, unexpectedly saddened by the fact that he would leave so soon. It wasn�t that she denied him his pleasure or his work; if that had been the case, there were others she could have married. No, it was just that today had promised to be theirs, in some way. The prospect of losing that day suddenly seemed unbearable. She lay quietly beside him. Andrew suddenly redirected his hands, kept them still, and easily moved them to her now exposed breasts, letting his fingers gently explore them. �No,� he said hoarsely, �I begged out. Not today.� He suddenly traced her shoulders, her neck, her face, turned her face to look at him. His eyes reassured her. Once again, relieved, she became easy and gently moved his hands to their former position. Time passed. Spent and satiated, they grew quiet. �Annie,� he said after a while into the still cool morning, �John�s my boss and my friend. But I told him to find someone else. I was busy today. He does, however, want me in a week.� Anne leaned back in Andrew�s arms. They could see the sun as it moved slowly from the side of the house that protected them. In a half an hour the sun would be exactly where they lay. Anne turned and let her hand caress Andrew�s cheek, trace his eye, slide gently across his temple and rest in his hair. She felt him stir under her. She sat up. Andrew stood and put his hand out, helping Anne to her feet. He smoothed her hair back into place, primly retied the bandanna, his fingers resting lightly on her neck. He brushed the grass from her dress, took her hand, walked her back to the steps. �You look ready to go back in a week,� said his wife as they both entered the house. Andrew shook his head and proceeded to the coffeepot to fill another cup for himself. �Will you miss me?� he asked, turning to her, expectant. She took the cup out of his hand and set it on the counter. Their eyes caught and held. This time she turned his face and kissed him, not possessively, only gently. �You, sir, would be a wreck if I didn�t let you go,� she said. �You would be unbearable all the time and I would be unhappy, too. Besides,� she teased, �who wants a pilot underfoot all the time! Go!� She held him. �Only some time soon, take me with you.� Suddenly, out of the sky, the sound of a small plane engine�s insistent calling came to them. Silently they both went to the large plate-glass window that looked out onto the rose garden and the street beyond. Neither of them could locate the plane in the intensifying glare of the sun. It didn�t matter that they could not see the plane overhead; there was no need for a picture. The engine calling from high up was sufficient to stir this passion. A knowing look passed between them. The experienced pilot, versed in the rules of physics and common sense and hungry for the stunning beauty that awaited him would be returning to the sky. Anne put her hand out and gently rubbed his back, encouraging his own private relationship with the heavens. She loved him; it had to be this way. Recovered, rejuvenated, he would climb once again into the sometimes overcrowded and yet always endlessly beautiful sky and take her heart with him.
Copyright © 2003 Shelley J Alongi |