To Lay Amongst the Wheat

Hues of gold and yellow danced along her pale skin, haloing her form sprawled out amongst the wheat. Cicada song enveloped the atmosphere, a hypnotic hum broken only by the rustle of leaves in the warm, dry breeze. Time hung over us, brought to a standstill by yet another quiet afternoon in the endless summer. But I didn’t mind. I never wanted time to creep forwards again.

I lay on my stomach on a picnic blanket, hands folded beneath my cheek, covered only by my long hair falling over my shoulders and the shadow of the tall plants around us. Marigold was on her back. Face tilted to meet the sky, arms stretched above her head. She was covered in nothing but sunlight. I reached across and slipped my hand into hers, squeezing it in a way that said nothing and everything all at once. She squeezed back.

I watched as a bee hovered by her ear, thought for a moment, and then flittered off. The shadows grew longer.

“Mari, Mari. What would you give to stay in this field forever?”

She turned her head to meet my gaze, dragging heavy eyelids open. “For a start I would give my clothes. I would never need them.”

Marigold lifted one of her long legs and kicked the pile of clothes beside her. The dress and stockings rolled in the dust.

“And next I would give away my wedding rings. The bastard can have them back.”

I laughed. “Mine too. Clothes and jewellery. We would never use them again.”

Marigold stretched, lifting the small of her back off the rug. “Speaking of. John will be back from his fishing trip soon. I should be getting home.”

Those were words I’d been dreading all afternoon. I propped myself up so that I could kiss her, running my thumb along her jaw. She arched up to meet my mouth, and one kiss slid into the next and then the next. I pulled her closer, rolling us so that she fell atop me, her sun-warmed body flush against mine cool from the shade, our legs tangled together. Marigold gasped, the sound melting into quiet laughter. I pulled back to laugh with her.

“What is it?”

“You’re cold!”

“I’m not, you're warm.”

She brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead. “I need to warm you up.”

“Please, if it means you’ll stay a while.”

The waning sun filtered through her hair, surrounding her smiling face. She was ethereal. And she was here, and she was mine. I let my head fall back, closed my eyes and savoured the feel of her body. My hands slid down her spine and she hummed. Her gentle breath brushed my skin and then her lips were pressed to my collarbone. I would have given anything for time to stay still, and to lay in a field with Marigold forever.

***

The lamps were burning low, and the dishwater had grown cold by the time the screen door rattled open. I dragged the cloth across the pan for the hundredth time, fixed in a moment I knew all too well. His footsteps fell against the old wood boards and the chill settled just a little deeper in my bones.

“Lo?”

“In the kitchen, Charlie.”

He shuffled through the doorframe. There was something spilled down his front and a shadow was forming along his jaw. His gaze was slow to focus, but eventually found me in the dark.

“There y’are, Lo.”

“How was the pub?”

“Fine, just fine.”

He came up behind me, hands on my shoulders, and pressed his prickly face to my neck. He reeked of beer. His mouth was cold and wet.

“I missed ya though. That’s why I’m home now.”

His hands found my waist and he kissed me again. I smiled and said the right words. “That’s nice dear. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll fix you a drink?”

Charlie grunted. He ambled into the living room and the TV flicked on with a pop. Cold light spilled through the open doorway, changing as the images on the screen changed. I dried my hands on coarse cloth and smoothed my apron surreptitiously. It was a pitiful attempt to staunch the rising dread.

The room tilted around me, and for a moment I was choking, drowning in the ever encroaching dark. It tunnelled, pressing closer until all I could see was the basin full of cold dishwater. I gasped and squeezed my eyes closed, waiting for the world to right itself.

Eventually it did. I gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles, gulping mouthfuls of the stale air. The TV light flickered. The clock ticked. I stood and smoothed my apron.

I fetched a beer from the cooler and made my way into the living room. Black and white pictures danced across the television screen, painting the walls and floor in their eery glow.

“Here, Charlie.”

I set the drink on the side table, but he didn’t reply.

“Charlie?”

Nothing. Charlie was slumped in the armchair, mouth agape, breathing the laborious breaths of a drunk.

“You bloody bastard,” I muttered. But I couldn’t hide my relief from myself. Charlie let out a gruff snore and I sighed. Standing alone in my living room, but for my unconscious husband, I watched him sleep. He wasn’t unattractive, and he wasn’t unkind. When he was sober at least. But he wasn’t for me.

I drifted upstairs. My body hit the mattress with a dull thump and a rush of air expelled from my lungs. The sheets were cool, the air still, my heart slow and ponderous. I closed my eyes, and longed to be back in a sun-soaked field.

I longed to be laying beneath a pastel sky, amongst the gentle rustle of summer-dry wheat. Glowing bodies, hazy eyes, warm words breathed against hands, wrists, necks. I longed for kisses of a softer kind, tangled limbs, bare skin. I longed for Marigold’s soft, sweet smile.

The sound of her laughter chased me down into sleep.