The Key

She wakes gently into the cool light of the afternoon sun, as it dances across the floor and sneaks up onto the bed.   The air stirs with gentle music from the other room, the scent of tea, and the warm crackle of the fireplace in the main room.  She rolls over and stretches her arms across the soft pillows and comforter.  It has been a long time since she has felt this comfortable in a bed other than her own.  When she sits upright, hair beautifully tousled, she sees him rocking gently in his chair, scribbling away in his pad.  He smiles at her and takes a sip of tea.  The pot sits on the little table next to him with an empty cup waiting for her.  

She is about to say something nice when the memories of the night before come crawling back to her.  She loses her words in the questions that were asked.  She loses her thoughts in the truths brought to light.  Simplicity seems not so simple anymore.  She turns and slides her bare legs from under the covers.  Her clothes have been carefully folded and rest on the chair next to the bed.  She slips on her jeans and shirt, and buttons up her sweater.  As she goes to take her keys from the top of the dresser she sees what he has done.  The late afternoon sun cuts through the bare tree limbs outside the window and shines off of the single key lying on top of a letter.  The key has a red ribbon tied through its hole and the only words she can make out through the swollen water in her eyes is the letter's title, which is too beautiful and too personal and touches a part of her that she had forgotten long ago.

She takes a breath, dries her eyes, and smiles.  She turns to him and walks.  He starts to rise from his chair to offer her tea or breakfast.  He starts to rise from his chair to walk her to the door.  He starts to rise from his chair for a thousand little reasons that are all just excuses to show her his love.  He starts but she stops him with a finger on his lips.  She pushes him back in his seat and as he rocks forth again she meets him with a kiss, her hands on his broad shoulders, his hands on her waist.  She thinks of something to whisper, some reassurance, but nothing will pass her lips.

She gathers her bag from the floor by the door, and before he can object she is gone into the autumn evening.  He rises from his chair and walks over to the dresser and sets down his pad, still open to the page where he has drawn her beautiful sleeping face, peeking out from under the covers.  The sunlight still kisses the key atop his heartfelt words, changed only by the watermark of her tear.  A tear runs down his cheek as he stares out at the low hills covered in fallen leaves, at the wispy clouds through the branches by his window, as he asks himself a thousand questions.