She glanced at him, at his blonde curls, at his broad shoulders, his large hands.
I wonder. … What will it be like to have him slip my dress off my shoulders, letting the moonlight play along my tanned body. Will he be rough, tender, passionate, or not give a damn.
I wonder. …
He turned, gazed at her, placed his hands on her shoulders and ripped the dress down to the seam. Then he picked her up gently, carried her to the soft quilts, the blankets, the pillows, the firelight painting his jaw orange. …
In the background she could hear the river slipping by, its never ending wash against stone and tree, the slew of it in a whirl around the base of the old oak they lay under.
That’s how I feel. That’s how he makes me feel. Swirling madness, desire, hope, sadness that he’s leaving after our one night honeymoon. And in the morning I’ll die; I’ll cry a flood and the river take me.
j willis sanders 