Widow Woman

Making Hay

A gang of five men were cutting and hauling the hay on their own wagons to the barn where he was to pitch it from the wagon to the hayloft. Like he, they are hired, but like the woodcutters, they eat their own lunches in the field or the shade of the barn. Today, they were eating at the barn.

They asked him how he liked working for her, what she was like and did he think he would stay. He blushes at their questions, not knowing what to say about her after the meal just past. But he voiced his opinion that if things keep going the way they were now, he was more than willing to stay.

The men laughed and winked knowingly. Angry, he asked what that was supposed to mean? They answered and said, "Oh, that's what they all say! Here you are still in your first week, vowing to stay But no one never does–maybe a fortnight, almost none for even the full month! We were just wondering what that's all about? The same vow, always broken?"

"I have no idea about the others, only about myself," he said. "I have no reason to leave here, no reason to go elsewhere."

They hay men all laughed again, and again they said,"Yes! The same, old story! And yet, here you are, replacing the last lad! Good luck to you!"

He was ready to pick a fight, but thinking of the job, he changed his mind, and walked into the barn and climbed onto the wagon. With his pitch fork, he hurled the sweet-smelling hay so hard it hit the end of the barn. His anger had only barely abated when the men return with the next load. He said nothing to them this trip, but instead went to the well for a drink and a rinse off from the prickly chaff.

He looked once at the house and thought he saw the curtain at the window move–it would be her bedroom window, he realized— as he turned to put his shirt back on after rinsing his head, arms and chest. The cold water felt good and he stretched his tense muscles in the sun. When he returned to the barn, a fresh wagonful of hay waited, the men were gone and he set to, pitching this load a little more gently.

Evening approached, the last wagon of the day came in and was emptied. It was the last for this cutting, they said, and that their work was done. He asked if they needed to speak to the boss lady. They said, no. As they rode away on the empty wagon they wished him good luck He acknowledged them, but muttered, "Good Riddance!"

They laughed as if they had heard him and waved good bye.

It had been a full seven days since he began, and as he walked to the well, the moon was just rising over the hill across the meadow It was full and huge and pale orange.

At the well, he washed, taking his time, even unbuttoning his pants and washing between his legs, careful to face away from the window. His pants were already soaked with sweat from waist to knees and below. Pitching hay was hot work no matter what the weather. What matter if he wet his pants the rest of the way down to his boots, he thought? It might at least smell better.

As he buttoned them back up, the bell rang and he resisted the urge to trot to the porch. As he came around the corner, she was standing on the porch, waiting near the door Waiting for him! As he approached, her face lit up with a smile and she stepped back inside the screen door, letting it bang shut. He couldn't help himself. He bolted up the steps, yanked the door violently open and there she stood, waiting.

Their embrace was mutual and long and almost violent in its passion Dinner was on the table, but he picked her up and without hesitating strode to the curtained door, his mouth devouring her lips and neck. He pushed the curtain aside and almost threw her on the bed. She offered no resistance; indeed gave herself fully to him and within moments both were fully naked and fully involved. What his passion lacked in delicacy, he made up for in quantity. She accepted it, encouraged it with small gasps and moans, guiding his hands and lips. It was dark before they finished.

Through the crack in the curtains, a sliver of moonlight fell on their naked limbs where they lay drained, soaked with sweat and satisfied.

"Well" she said softly, "I suspect your supper is cold."

He laughed quietly.

"Sure you're hungry after a days work like that?" There was a smile in her voice.

"I could eat a horse, for sure," he said, voice deep and low. As he spoke, he raised up on one elbow and moved his other hand gently over her breasts. "But I'd take second helpings of you over the best steak in the house!"

She smiled, put her arms around his neck and raised her lips to his, kissing him full and long.

"Lets see what we can salvage of the meal?" And she was up and pulling on enough clothes to be decent

He followed suit and soon was setting to, on the reheated meal.

That night he slept in the house.