There wasn't a cloud in the sky to block the suns blinding light from the man's eyes. There weren't any tall buildings or other structures to do the job either. All that was there in the middle of that unending field of dead grass was a patch of soil surrounding a tree, one that's losing the last of its leaves.
This would be a bleak place if this was all there was, but it isn't.
There is also woman.
She leaned against the tree like it was an old friend, her back facing him. She gave life to the barren field, her long blonde hair and white dress gave color to the drab scene.
And he didn't feel so alone anymore, so lost.
The prickly grass faded into the soft, cool soil as he approached her back. The fallen leaves around her feet drug along the ground as her dress fluttered and pressed against her ankle. Her hair swirled and flowed with the leaves blown off of the tree.
The closer he got the more familiar she became to him, almost like he's known her his whole life. The closer he got the more he saw of her. There was the whorl of her hair, all the creases in her dress, the thin hairs on her arms, and a golden wedding ring on her finger.
Finally it came back to him.
"Ah. That's right." He thought. "She's my wife."
The longer he stared at her, the more troubled he grew.
"She's my wife, but I can't seem to remember her face." He began to worry.
"I can't remember her face." He fretted.
"I can't remember at all. Why? Why can't I remember?"
Her shoulder felt soft and smooth and warm beneath his hand, the golden ring on his finger twinkling. Slowly, she began turning her head against the blowing wind.
"Please," He begged, "Turn around and let me see your face. Please God, let me see my wife's face.
Please."
A dogs muffled barking filled the peaceful silence. A single window with thin lime curtains tied on either side washed the disarranged bedroom yellow. And in that room were trinkets and other novelty items which were scattered about, a closet that was left open for clothes listing off of hangers to fall to the floor, drawers on a desk that were pulled out, a nightstand that was jumbled with reading materials, a wall shelf which held a single dandelion in a jar; and the man, lying on the leftmost side of the full bed, who began to wake.
"The same dream again?" He thought. "I didn't get to see her face this time either." He brought his hand over his eyes and put pressure on his temples. "Why can't I see her face? Why can't I remember her? What can I do to... to..." His train of thought derailed as he looked around the room that was all but familiar to him. He looked all around, but it was useless.
He didn't recognize anything.
Nothing.
"Where am I?" He asked himself through a voice wrapped in morning raspiness, his question being absorbed in the rooms mess.
Underneath the barking came a light knock on the door.
"Honey? Don't be scared; I'm coming in." Said a women following the knock, her voice coated in sweetness, her speech articulate.
The door opened to a woman who smiled the second her eyes greeted his. She was around her late thirties. The strays of her wavy, light-brown hair was brushed off her cheek and fell on her shoulder as it seamlessly disappeared with the rest. A flower hair clip rebelled against the waves of brown and held her bangs to the side; accentuating the green in her wide eyes.
YOU ARE READING
His Lovely Wife
Mistero / Thriller"Who are you?" It was a question he's asked her a thousand times, that's cut her deep a thousand times, a question that never ends. All she ever wants is for him to remember her even if it only lasts a week, a day, or even just thirty minutes-it'll...
