On the second day, on that lucky Friday off, on her way to the market, she saw him through the window of the cafe on the water; she had known this was a possibility. Had it in her mind when she dressed that morning. Saw how that green tee with the rip on the left sleeve made her eyes pop. In this shirt, she appeared, interrupting the writing he had just sat down to do.
It thrilled her that he drove a motorcycle; they ripped around the ocean side, through the steep cliffs and dense forests that sandwiched the many houses. She could smell summer with more strength, perched behind him, hands lingering on his back longer than necessary as he leaned into corners. The gamut of richness. A mouth filled with dark chocolate. A snapping dog. An exhilarating yelp of relief as they got away, unscathed.
There was the reading of each other's work that day. An unexpected kiss on her back patio; the fierce desire with which he approached her when they stood in the cool shadows of his living room. She lured him to a river, under the pretense of watching the sunset, but instead her passion came through her words, shocking her even, as she realized that she was doing everything she wanted to do to thrive in life. And that she was; that she really was. And that no one had given her the patience, or the care, or the clean ears, or the open eyes to allow her to spell it all out to herself, to spill it all out to herself, to reach in to her chambers and pull out the immaculate rainbow of possibilities that are her opportunities in this world.
All he did was listen.