It's been sunnier lately, warmer too. There are blossoms on the vines that wrap and cling to the verandah. The pink blooms frame him gorgeously as he plows the earth; a perfectly romantic scene, not unlike a painting. There's new strength in his muscles as he chips away at the ground, his rhythm precise and steady. He looks up at me and smiles. His glistening face is weary but content, his eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
Yes, he's fully recovered from his injury, now. And yet here he remains. It was a short conversation. He asked if I wanted him to go. I said he could stay if he liked. He was glowing but clearly distressed at the notion of becoming a freeloader. "That wouldn't be fair on you, though, would it?" he had said. "If I stay, I want to earn my keep."
And so, I've taken him on as something of a labourer. He tills my soil, waters the shoots, and harvests the spoils, and I continue to provide him with food and board. To tell the complete truth, I would be delighted to just keep him here with me for nothing. I would be perfectly content to let him just sit and look pretty all day while I potter about. Cook and clean for him. Make his bed. Help him wash.
But that wouldn't have been a sound idea, no matter how much pleasure it gave me to picture in my head. I can only grow and sell so much produce on my own in this little clearing. In all honesty, having his capable hands around the place is exactly what I need. In more ways than one.
He finishes one patch and moves to the next. I bring him some water and our hands graze as I pass him the glass.
"You work so hard, baby." I've been calling him that rather comfortably ever since our first venture together, that night we shared his bed.
"I mean, I like to," he replies, wiping his brow. "Can't just study plants all day, right?" He chuckles softly, waves his hand at the work he's done thus far. "Gotta get my hands dirty, too."
He notices the look I'm giving him and blushes, realising his choice of words. His gaze is drifting to my blouse, or down it, rather. I chose a rather low-cut one today. I press my chest out slightly as I take his empty glass. "You've gotten plenty dirty for today, anyhow. So don't be out too much longer in this sun. Come in soon, okay?"
"Okay, I will."
"Good boy."
-----
The barges come down the river twice a week, their low hulls weighed down in the water with all manner of goods, the men aboard singing old songs as they come. I sell them my vegetables, and they provide me with coin and necessities such as firewood, cloth, and lamp oil in return. They then unfasten their vessel from the post and off they go, singing merrily down their river, bound for the village.
I've taught him how to handle the transactions, and he's taken on the task with surprising rigour. He seems a different person as he chatters with the barge men -- much more like a man than a boy. He speaks low, sparingly as he cackles and banters with them. His shoulders ripple as he takes up the crates, setting them down with a laugh. They shove and wrestle, bat each other on the arm as they say their goodbyes. Gruff, curt, stoic.
I watch on and bite my lip, remembering just how soft and high his voice got when I pressed my ass into his crotch. How he shuddered so weakly, apologised so frantically as I cleaned his hot mess up with my mouth. How he nestled into my chest afterwards, sleepy and satisfied.
I'm smiling to myself and my smalls are wet as we trudge back up to the house. Oh, I know what he can get like, when it's just the two of us.
-----
It's Sunday. A day for both of us to rest. We're going to bake together today, him and I.
Everything's going splendidly. The garden is fuller, brighter, and neater than it has ever been, thanks in no small part to his strong hands and botanical prowess. The soil is rich and well-tilled, sifted free of rocks and clumps. Green sprouts are curling up and out of the ground, and the fruit branches are budding over -- soft promises of plentiful future harvests.
Yes, I should feel happy. But right now, all I can focus on is how she's laughing with him, eyeing his chest and arms greedily.
I've never had a problem with her, the miller's daughter. She's a fine young girl, pretty-faced and hardworking, her red cheeks and tight-fitting apron always dusted down with flour. It's only now that she's giggling at his every word and twirling her hair stupidly in his presence that I feel this animosity.
He takes the bags of flour from her and clinks coins into her waiting palm. They share a grin, her eyes yet again dropping to peruse the cut of his torso, so easily defined through his thin white work shirt.
Almost reluctantly he starts back over to me. I fold my arms tightly over my chest, give her a terse smile and walk him back home. I toss hair out of my face, try to relax my shoulders. We're to bake something nice today. That's what we're going to do, despite this sudden bitter feeling.
"She's nice," he says softly as we step inside.
I don't look at him. I reply, "It's good we've got the flour."
-----
I'm teaching him how to make one of his favourites: cinnamon scrolls. I guide him gently through the process, and he's a perfect learner. He tips out the correct amount of flour, sifts it in neatly with the dry ingredients. I help him add the wet ingredients to the bowl and my arms butt awkwardly past him, getting into his space.
I know he can smell my perfume as I come close to him. I know he can see down my blouse, catching an eyeful of my cleavage.
I show him how to knead. I watch his perfect forearms stiffen and release as his sun-browned knuckles work the dough up and into itself, over and over. I think about those same perfect arms being caressed by that stupid girl, and it takes a moment for me to rid my mind of the thought.
"What do we do now?" he asks.
"We roll it out and fill it up. Yes, like that. Good job."
The air is laced with cinnamon as he generously spreads the filling across the flattened dough. I stay nice and close to him as we roll it up, arm to arm. Just to make sure he's doing it right, of course. We slice the finished bundle to pieces, space them out and slot the tray into the oven. I clap the heavy door shut, wash my hands, and meet his gaze. He's leaning patiently against the counter with a soft smile across his lips. Waiting for my next instruction.
I let my hair down with a sigh. "Now, we just have to wait."
"Oh, okay. But is there anything else to do?" As ever, he's eager to help -- endearingly so. His meekly folded hands and attentive face have me blushing, chewing my lip, a familiar warmth blooming between my thighs.
Only now, once we've stopped bustling about, do I realise just how badly I need him. I reply softly, "I suppose we could get started on the glaze."
