The carriage ride was never particularly smooth. The wheels waggled over the uneven cobblestones in certain parts of the city, making a wanton, drunken motion. Everett never minded. Despite the wiggle-waggle of his ride, these were always moments that he treasured--the very best and very worst part of his day. Tucked against him was a weary painter with disheveled hair and a warm smile.
In the quiet tones of late night, they swapped stories about their families and their lives long before Rhydin. These were the sorts of stories that would bore a stranger, but a friend paints these pictures with a different brush and brighter colors. Between these old stories, new memories were forged: a comfortable tangle of fingers together; the sound of her laugh when she's exhausted well beyond reason; her shoulders relaxing, just slightly, into a happy sigh. These things made up the best part of his day.
As they neared the flat where she lived, the tempo of the hooves slowed and the wheels soon followed. Everything lurched to a stop. The worst part of his day: saying goodnight. The man would leave her at her flat and ride back to the inn alone, to labor his way up the stairs and collapse into the bed in rented in the room that was more his than just about anything in the world. This was not about values or morals. This was not about God. It was for the two people in question.
For both of them, things needed to proceed slowly. Everett could not speak for Juliane; he knew only the barest basics of her story. She was both cautious and demure, and yet still so warm. As for Everett, his own heart had been thoroughly macerated by an inconstant, intemperate woman years and years ago. He had only recently really begun to recover. In the end, if you will let it, hope can almost always overcome despair.
Her doorstep. The best place. The worst place. With a wistful little smile on his face, he brushed a few of the hairs that had escaped from her bun back out of her eyes and tucked them just behind her ear. The poet felt a rush, a swell of delight. That he was about to go only made it all the more sweeter. Everett held her for a moment, reveling in the feel of her particular curves against his own lanky angles. If he could literally drown himself in her smell, and it would be a wholly unobjectionable way to die.
A sigh slipped from his lips; the sort that lived in this dusky world of parting. It was content and delight and hope, all mingled with a hint of the sadness of goodbye. It was just the right cocktail for the end of a wearying day.
They said goodnight.
The poet went home.
In the quiet tones of late night, they swapped stories about their families and their lives long before Rhydin. These were the sorts of stories that would bore a stranger, but a friend paints these pictures with a different brush and brighter colors. Between these old stories, new memories were forged: a comfortable tangle of fingers together; the sound of her laugh when she's exhausted well beyond reason; her shoulders relaxing, just slightly, into a happy sigh. These things made up the best part of his day.
As they neared the flat where she lived, the tempo of the hooves slowed and the wheels soon followed. Everything lurched to a stop. The worst part of his day: saying goodnight. The man would leave her at her flat and ride back to the inn alone, to labor his way up the stairs and collapse into the bed in rented in the room that was more his than just about anything in the world. This was not about values or morals. This was not about God. It was for the two people in question.
For both of them, things needed to proceed slowly. Everett could not speak for Juliane; he knew only the barest basics of her story. She was both cautious and demure, and yet still so warm. As for Everett, his own heart had been thoroughly macerated by an inconstant, intemperate woman years and years ago. He had only recently really begun to recover. In the end, if you will let it, hope can almost always overcome despair.
Her doorstep. The best place. The worst place. With a wistful little smile on his face, he brushed a few of the hairs that had escaped from her bun back out of her eyes and tucked them just behind her ear. The poet felt a rush, a swell of delight. That he was about to go only made it all the more sweeter. Everett held her for a moment, reveling in the feel of her particular curves against his own lanky angles. If he could literally drown himself in her smell, and it would be a wholly unobjectionable way to die.
A sigh slipped from his lips; the sort that lived in this dusky world of parting. It was content and delight and hope, all mingled with a hint of the sadness of goodbye. It was just the right cocktail for the end of a wearying day.
They said goodnight.
The poet went home.