It wasn’t the sort of day that required her to do anything, so she lazed about drinking cups of black coffee with lemon-slice shaped ice floating at the top. She picked up a book and flicked listlessly through the pages. She read a sentence about microbes and then another about tapeworm, and she frowned, shutting the book and looking at the front cover. A magnified rendered image of a virus splattered glossily over the front flap, glaring at her menacingly.

When her heart started beating fast she marked it up to her fourth cup of strong black coffee, and made her mind up to stop drinking it. The sun filtered through her window, cutting through the thin white curtains that billowed lazily in the cooling breeze that sailed down the mountains and created a crosswind through the house. Beautiful, beautiful house, she thought, glancing over her shoulder. Scenic photographs of the surrounding lanscape, enlarged and framed, hung on nearly every inch of the cream walls. In between hung little relics of a life well-travelled. Hand-woven rug, coarse yet soft under her calloused feet. The doorframes were painted green, and the window frames white against the dull cream on the walls but you couldn’t notice that because the photography – his photography, hugged every corner of the house and encroached the space.

Encroached? Shrouded?

Embraced.

His presence was everywhere. She breathed and his smell lingered yet. A perfume of warm smells. Tobacco – she took a deep breath. Coffee. Of course coffee. Lemon? No, grass. Freshly mown grass. A little tobacco maybe, a husky sort of smell, and wood. The wood was everywhere though. Hand-carved oak table, carved maple figurines on the mantlepiece, and the mantle itself he had cut and sanded. He loved the smell of pine, he told her, it made him feel at home.

She didn’t feel anything anymore. She could touch what he touched. Without grief or fear of plague. She could sleep on his pillow, and wear his clothes. She wanted to be reminded, now. After so long, she wanted to remember.

When she pushed the curtains away from the window, and the mountain cascaded downwards before her before rising up towards the sunset, she breathed and it was his scent the wind carried. She let it fill her lungs, caress her hair gently around her face. The pines in the valley hugged the foot of the mountain and the lombardy poplars on the slope were silhouettes to the sunset, with the sunrises casting a glorious glow about them. They became alive. Full of character. The sky was vibrant with life. Clouds scudding across the horizon and as the day crept towards night, they began to take on the magnificent hue of the retreating sun, reflecting it back onto earth.

I see you.

The earth was alive in this place. She felt its blood running through her veins.

She saw what he saw, now. His thoughts were hers.

This was Day Three of my Short Story Challenge. The why of which is outlined here, and the challenge of which is outlined here.

O’Henry, also known as William Sydney Porter, said of the short story writing process: “Write stories that please yourself. There is no Rule 2.” That is what I shall do.