Years, Love

The Shut-ins

1970

The light crept in through the open curtains and settled on top of the twisted sheets, roaming over the man trying to remain in perfect unconsciousness. He rolled onto his side in an attempt to hide from the persistent rays. With a grumble, John opened his eyes and squinted, bringing his hand up block the sun. He yawned and extended his arm, feeling the empty spot next to him. He sat up and let the sheets fall to his waist as he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. John listened for any noise to give him a hint as to where his wife could be. He peered around the room with sleep clouded eyes. A soft smile played on his lips as his eyes fell on her. He should have known she'd be on the patio. It was her favorite area to be since they had moved into the spacious flat. Christine loved to spend her days out there painting, sculpting, or sketching if the weather permitted.

From his spot, he watched her intently. Her talents mystified and captivated him. John didn't fancy himself as a talented man. He played bass and was decent in his mind but told himself that was from practice. The man wouldn't know where to begin if he had to paint a landscape or sketch a portrait. The tasks were effortless for his wife. All she did seemed to be trouble-free and natural. He took in every detail as she blended and created smoothed edged strokes on the canvas, adoring the look of concentration on her features. The way her brows furrowed, her lips curled so slightly at the corners, and her stunning eyes focused enthralled him.

John slipped out from under the tangle of sheets and quilts, padding through the open door. "Morning, love," he murmured. He put his hands on her hips, squeezing tenderly and brushing his lips against the crook her of neck. The soft coconut scent of her soap invaded his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply to smell the orange, lemon, and lime notes mingling with the coconut. He remembered her telling him the homemade bar she bought in a little shop was called coconut margarita.

"Afternoon, sleepyhead," she whispered, turning her head and meeting his lips for a kiss.

"What's the time?" he questioned as his thick brows knitted together. He wasn't sure what hour he'd returned home from the gig, but he knew he couldn't have slept the day away.

"After twelve last I looked at the clock."

"Oh," he mumbled and kissed her shoulder, tickling his fingers over her ribs and mischievously grinning as she squirmed.

"John!" Christine squealed and dropped the paintbrush onto the ground. "Don't tickle. Please," she begged through her laughter.

His nimble fingers danced up and down her sides until resting at the hem of her shirt. "I'll stop," he promised.

"You better," she warned.

"Or what, Chris? You'll filch another of my shirts?" he asked playfully, lightly pinching her hip as her sky-blue eyes rolled. "It looks better on you than me," John admitted and let his hands settle over the swell of her pregnant belly.

"Every one. Yours are best to paint in."

He chuckled. He had plenty of shirts with paint stains and splotches in drawers. John felt a strong kick against the palm of his hand. He gasped in surprise as his eyes shimmered with pride. "That was a strong one," he commented and met her eyes.

Christine put her hand over his and nodded her head. She found it endearing how amazed he was every time he felt their child move. He'd been on the road since the beginning of the year and was finally home except for a handful of shows in or within hours of London. He wouldn't miss anything more. She turned to face him, slithering her arms around his neck and nuzzling her nose against his.