Little Things The wind whipped through the trees across the street, and rattled the hinges on the wrought iron gate causing Andrew to shiver as he stepped out of the Ford Explorer in front of his house. He cast a practiced eye toward the sky, shook his head, relieved in a way. The clouds overhead looked foreboding. He had gotten back just in time, he figured, as he grabbed his heavy flight bag out of the car, said thank you to the driver, and closed the door. He walked across the grass, lifted the cold, iron latch of the gate, happy to be back. He thought the temperature dropped three degrees and the air grew denser and heavier as he put his keys in the highly carved door, and opened it just in time. A fine mist of sprinkles fell from the sky, a precursor to the nasty storm that brewed above him. He came in to the quiet house removed his coat, put the keys on the table, put his flight bag in the corner. The house was warm, welcoming; a gentle fragrance of something hung in the air. He went to the kitchen and got a drink of water, drained his glass, left it on the drain board. The refrigerator purred into life and he headed upstairs, looking at the clock. It was 2:35 am. ATC had diverted his plane to another airport. The home airport was socked in solid. He had rented a car with another passenger headed in the same direction, and had come home. He went upstairs and entered his bedroom. This was always a happy occasion for him. He was used to entering his room without the light; he did not want to wake Anne. His heart swelled within him looking at her, lying half sprawled across the king-size bed, her hair peeking out of its wrapper, her face sweet, smooth in the dim glow of a night light. A book lay discarded at her hand. Quiet, soft sounds came from her as she slept. He undressed quickly, suddenly needing to be with her, not only exhausted, but affectionate, just the simple touch of her arms welcoming him out of the frigid night a necessity. He pushed his clothes onto the pile of laundry and made his way to his side of the bed, gratefully crawling under the sheets and comforter, coming to lie next to her. Her warmth flooded him, she stirred gently, and he turned to her. �Andrew?� her voice was sleepy, her arms went out to him, he turned into them. She moved so that he could put his head near hers. �You�re so cold!� �Sorry.� Her mouth met his, forgiving, willing; her arms pulled him close, snuggling beside him, welcoming him with her body, her kiss. �I tried to wait up.� He silenced her with his lips. The kiss finally ended, he lay supine, unwinding, comforted. �Goodness,� she laughed into his hair; �we�re amorous. Shall we go for the wine coolers?� �Hmmm. No.� The word was filled with languorous contend tinged with fatigue. �Ok,� coy, flirting, promising. He curled cozily against her, let her move her hand and caress his hair, her hand rested on his back. �Sorry we�re late.� His words trailed into the softness of her neck, his breath on her. �Hush, my drifter pilot. I know the plane was diverted. That sky is nasty.� �Been looking at the weather maps?� he teased. �No way!� she was suddenly laughing, �that�s your department. I�ll look at the planes, you can deal with the clouds.� �Sky clearing,� he was holding her, despite his fatigue, loving her with his eyes. � �I made cookies,� she whispered, seductively. �Can�t wait,� he said wearily, not willing to continue their sensual contact. He closed his eyes, encircled in her embrace, the covers over them; the broiling storm left behind. Slowly, he relaxed grew warmer, leaving the wind and the rain outside. His head eased of its constant whirring, the papers, the people, the pressure to remember to do the right thing, and to be always on guard. He lay breathing in the perfume of her hair, her body, perhaps some sweet fragrance she had put on. The sweet welcome of his wife, the gentleness of this existence gathered to embrace him. His eyes grew heavy. �Is it raining?� she spoke into his languorous enjoyment of the peaceful surroundings. �Hmm,� he sighed into her hair, �a little.� She quieted beside him, loosened her embrace a bit, moved so that she was more comfortable, rubbed his back, gently eased the tenseness of his muscles. �I missed you,� she whispered into his hair. She kissed him lazily, not wanting him to respond, only wanting to bestow her affection on him. He lay accepting it, breathing easily. She stroked his hair, glad to have him here. �Andrew?� she spoke gently, but he was easily sleeping, comforted in her arms, unwilling to leave this place of serenity. �Oh, Andrew,� she said sweetly, rubbing his neck �I love you.� She pulled the covers closer about them tucked them around him, kissed his eyes. He stirred, sighed. She quieted him. �Hush there my darling.� He did not awaken, and soon, sweetly contented, Anne Lynn Crance slept beside her husband, while outside the storm gathered and prepared to pummel their city with its fury. � When Andrew woke again in that delicious state between wakefulness and sleeping, firmly entrenched in contentment, the rain was slamming against the window the wind whipping angrily. A flash of lightning brightened up the room, spreading its white light throughout, alluminating the closet, the bed, and the tangle of clothes on the floor. He stretched, listening to Anne�s breathing. The room went dark again; the rain pelted the glass, the wind whipping in odd circles, playing out its rage. Inside, they lay in harmony, safe. �Hey,� came the soft voice of his just waking wife, �you sleeping today?� �Hmmm. Crashing.� �Ok.� �You have a plan?� he wanted to know. �Laundry.� �Oh,� groaned the pilot in mock disgust, �joy.� She lay beside him, suddenly full of energy in contrast to his sluggishness. She got out of bed, and noticing that he had gone back to sleep, she gently pulled her half of the sheets and blankets over him. She got the laundry together, transported it downstairs, put it on. It would be a lazy day, just she and her husband. He would be asleep most of the day, rejuvenating his energy. She had to admit sometimes he drove her nuts! Look, he had left his keys on the table, the coat flung across the chair, the flight bag in the corner, but it was a small price to pay for such happiness. He had been good to her, she knew that. Married one year, their relationship continued in the way it had started, comfortable, easy, gentle, with a few adjustments to suit their new circumstances: the usual living habits, differences in points of view. Least of all, the job thing. It was their unspoken and spoken agreement. He flew planes for a living. The hours were hard, but she was home base. She taught English. Several hours later, she entered the room, throwing a load of laundry on the bed, causing him to stir, emit a soft sound. He turned and stretched, looking around him. She came to him hugged him. �Sorry, sweetie. You were asleep.� �It�s okay,� he whispered, trying to clear his head, �what happened?� �Oh, I just dropped laundry on the bed.� He sat up, rubbed his eyes, responded lazily to her kiss. �Come here.� �Andrew?� she was playful. �I have the laundry to do!� She sat down on the bed beside him; he turned her into his arms as if she were some little plane only needing the slightest adjustments to obey his whim. �I should make you help me with the laundry,� she said weakly, as he kissed her, took control of her heart, her responses. �It can wait.� �Hey, Andrew! Stop it!� she said weakly, �stop!� �I missed you,� he announced into her hair, �I love you Annie Lynn Crance.� �I guess so!� She let him touch her hair, unwind it. Then he wound it up again, putting it into a clip. Suddenly, intensely, he pulled her to him and lost himself, their desire quenched only by fulfillment. Afterward he stroked her hair gently, quieting his own passion, making sure she was comfortable in his arms. �Feeling better now? She teased him, placing kisses under his eyes. �Hmmm.� He lay meekly beside her. �It was that last IMC approach. Man you can�t even see out of the window, not the wing, not anything! That flight was nasty!� �So you�re blaming your amorousness on that?� She placed her fingers at the corner of his mouth, pulled his lips into a smile. �You are a rascal, that�s what you are.� �I know,� he said humbly. �I know.� �Alright Mr. Hotshot Pilot,� she teased, tousling his thick blond hair, tangling her fingers in it, �just for that�that um little bout of behavior, you�re making breakfast!� �What?� he teased back, holding her tighter, as if he wouldn�t let her go. �Me?� �Yes. You. I�m hungry!� Pancakes had become a ritual with the newly married couple. He had told her on there third meeting that he was no stranger to kitchens and as their relationship grew she discovered that he was right. The days after returning from flights were designated as is days to make breakfast. She made the coffee, he made the pancakes. They were good, she decided. He certainly could take care of himself, he had lived on his own for many years before they married. Anne was always willing to let him into the kitchen so it was with delight that they retired there to undertake their ritual breakfast. It seemed as if this is always how their day went when he returned. He slept, they had their intimate moments and then they ate breakfast. Sometimes life was all about the little things: not the hectic moments between grading papers, leaving for the airport, or attending work-related functions. Sometimes life was just all about being together. If that was what life was about for Anne and Andrew Crance, then they were certainly getting a good start.
Copyright © 2003 Shelley J Alongi |