I love Sunday mornings. George gets up early and the children sleep in. I have the bed to myself and the house is quiet. I'm neither awake or asleep. I follow a random train of thought, heading many different directions and no direction in particular. Snippets of dream-like scenes play in my mind's eye. My thoughts become narration.
I'm going out on a limb and sharing one such snippet with you.
He was driving her home. He took the country back road, claiming it was a shortcut, knowing full well that it would add at least another half hour to their trip.
"Pull over," she said.
He did. Had she said, "Fly me to the moon," he would have done it. A startled jackrabbit darted across the road.
"Do you like to dance?" she asked.
He didn't dare tell her he had two left feet. He could swing a maul over his head and split a stump clean in half, but dancing was a skill he did not possess.
She reached over to the steering column and turned the ignition off, leaving the lights and radio on. Patsy Cline crooned. There seemed to be a lot of crooning on the radio after dark.
"Come on," she said, opening the truck door and stepping out. He did the same.
She walked around to the front of the truck, trailing her hand along the chrome trim as she went. They met between the headlights. Crickets chirped and bull frogs bellowed.
She took his right hand and placed it on the small of her back. His hand fit her back like it fit his favorite coffee mug. She took his other hand in hers in a gentle clasp. She was surprised that his hands were so soft. She'd seen him digging trenches and had expected calluses.
Her free hand slid around his neck and she leaned into him ever so slowly. Her cotton dress met his denim jeans. She swayed, he followed.
This wasn't dancing, this was dreaming.