From my current WIP titled . . . in a love song
The smell of the heat in the evening inspired him to breathe deep. There was a trace of fruitful air now and then or so it seemed as the wind and speed drove his hair away from his face. A solitary cloud concealed most of the moon, but the silver stars decorated the night. This essence of freedom he’d guarded for so many years of his life rumbled within like the start of an earthquake. He’d lived with change but by his own making. No resemblance now to what he was feeling as the black night enveloped him in the short drive back to Eva’s Inn.
His pack of Winston beckoned to him, and he sat in the Jeep and smoked. Two cigarettes in four days—this hadn’t happened in too long to remember. He hadn’t even kissed her goodnight, and he missed experiencing her longing—that desire which made him feel like a man, the hero. He huffed at himself. Fat chance. He got out and killed the cigarette, picked up the extinguished butt, and closed it into his ashtray.
Fatigue settled in as he walked beside the house. Eva greeted him quietly with a smile when he stepped inside but frowned quickly.
“Mr. Rivers, whatever is the matter?”
How could she tell? And her voice reminded him of his mother’s when she discovered he’d been hurt as a child but had yet to discover the source. He laughed half-heartedly. “Guess the late nights are gettin’ to me, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Eva, please.” She walked out from behind her desk and looked hesitant as she cleared her throat behind her delicate fingers. “Mr.—Dale,” she began, forehead etched with clear wrinkles, serious and concerned. “May I speak with you for a few moments?” She brushed an unseen speck off her rust colored Capri pants.
These women in this town kept him feeling unbalanced and unprepared. Awkward. She used his first name. “Yeah, sure.”
“Come this way—it’s cooler in my area, and I still have some lemonade if you’d like.”
He followed obediently but dreaded the unexpected. She brought him a glass of lemonade, and he sipped the refreshing brew.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured with her arm.
He sat in the nearest chair. She faced him from the couch. “Dale, I’ve lived this life in two ways—me and Mr. Johnson, Donald,” she said affectionately. “I know it’s hard to look at a fat old woman and picture a lovely young gal who was passionately in love with the handsomest man I’d ever met, but nevertheless, I was, and after some time, he was.” A whimsical smile lit up her face.
He hated to hear her refer to herself as a fat old woman. Her beauty became apparent to him more everyday. It wasn’t something you spotted immediately upon seeing her—it was more like sensing it, like the anticipation of a favorite thing. Age hadn’t been unkind to her, but it had come along with the years like quality furniture that finally begins to fade or tear or scratch with extended wear. He wasn’t good in these situations, but he had to speak to her defamation of herself. “Mrs. Johnson,” he stopped. “Eva, you’re a pretty woman. You no doubt would’ve turned my head if you’d been my age.”
A blush highlighted her laughter. “That’s a compliment if I’ve ever heard one, Dale. Thank you. You definitely remind me of my Donald in his day.” She laughed a bit more before sobering. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time now. I believe you are tired. I just want to give you something to think about. Sometimes it’s not the fullness of the days—and by that I mean the activities like work or play—that make us weary. It’s the lack of meaning in them. When our . . . well, when our lifestyle seems aimless, we tend to repeat what we know and then become dissatisfied with similar results. That dissatisfaction lends itself to a general fatigue we can’t seem to shake.” The woman cocked her head ever so slightly.
He noticed it and it reminded him of someone listening to another’s instruction. She topped one hand over her other. “I hope that makes some sense to you. And may I say just one more thing, Dale?”
“Of course.”
“I suspect you’re not a man of God, but if you take a hard look at your life so far, you might be surprised at what you find.” She stood then. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr.—Dale—you do look awfully tired tonight. Thank you for listening.”
Father, thank you for every character, every story, every word. Apart from you, I can do nothing. I'm always desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.