He would be my first and last man to love.
His strong arms held me close to him. The smell of grass and leather reached my nose as, I placed my head of his broad chest. Outside the half open window, the thick June wind carried in the cicadas' continual hum. A sound that began early each morning and reached into each lazy evening. I let their song bring sleep to my body.
I had only known the man who lay next me for a short time, but my body craved his touch like the drunk craved the bottle.
My eyes were growing heavier as sleep tried to claimed me.
I felt him shift his position causing my head gently slid on to the pillow, so that our faces were only inches apart. Somewhere outside, an owl called out to the night, and the lighting bugs winked a greeting to the moon.
I took one last look at his face before giving into the call of sleep. He seemed older and wiser than the old oak I had fallen out of once as a child. The few gray strands that speckled his hair were like the Spanish that blew in breeze of the wise oaks.
He pulled me close and whispered, his lips lightly grazing my ear, "my wild rose".
YOU ARE READING
Wild Rose (Short Story)
Historical Fiction"They call me the wild rose, but my name was Elisa Day. Why they call me it I do not know. For my name was Elisa Day" Beauty does not last forever. It fades and wrinkles like the wild, red roses that grow down by the river. He could not bear to wat...
