Emmetsburg: Fifty-eight

She was so very different from Anna. Long brushed autumn hair was drawn back smartly from her narrow features. Even in this light John was aware of the subdued nature of her blue eyes, which seemed to catch fire the moment they met John's, as if she recognized him from somewhere without knowing where exactly. There was the slightest tension to her brow. It betrayed some distant tragedy, some scar that had healed itself mostly.The woman paused. She looked at John a little strangely, as if she was about to greet him by name.

She appeared so terribly familiar to him as well. It was an impossible notion.. Still, even John could not readily dismiss the idea. He found himself smiling at her without hardly realizing.

“Mama, you sit,” she brushed back a lock of hair.

She laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Her eye’s held John’s, with a beckoning sort of sexuality.

“Don’t mean to be a bother,” he said.

“No bother, stranger,” she paused near enough to John for him to become aware of the scent of a cigarette on her breath. His gaze fell to her partially bared breast, something she seemed not to particularly bothered by.

John followed her to the fire. His attention was fully on the motion of her shapely hips and buttocks beneath the dress' thin material. He mapped those subtle movements, mapping the figure beneath She paused looking back over her shoulder, and smiled coyly. She continued again, the dress flowing in perfect harmony with the crackling fire.

There was a big metal coffee pot on a smooth stone beside the fire. It was scorched black on the bottom, and part way up the sides. The rest of the pot was scratched dented and dulled by years of use. Three tin cups, just as dented as the pot, stood beside it, turned upside down on a log. There were two more dining chairs to either side of the stone. She lifted the pot. John went to the fire, hoping he wasn't being so obvious in his surprisingly sudden and intense attraction for her.

“Running?” she asked, almost matter of fact.

“Sorry?”

“Not that I care. I mean, it ain't none of my business. Just, I have a knack for picking out lost souls.”

“That so,” John replied, trying not to let on.

“Don't mean for the law, or nothing like that.”

“Didn't take it that way.”

“Everybody 'round here's running from something,” she shrugged, opening the lid on the pot and peering inside.

“And what are you running from?” John knelt by the fire.

“Me?” she laughed. There was a history in that laugh. She sat at the edge of one of the chairs. She looked skyward, following the sparks into the night sky. As a child she thought they were angels returning to heaven.

“Long story,” she said.

“Don't mean to pry.”
He held her eyes again. Or rather she held his, almost refusing to let them go. They warmed him, and made him feel electric. It made him feel like that first time with Anna. John felt younger for it, and innocent again, something he thought he'd lost in the war.

She took a deep breath, lifted her shoulders and let it out slowly. “Hust not in the habit of airing my laundry to strangers.”

“John,” he replied almost immediately. “John Perkins.”

“John,” she repeated thoughtfully, holding the word and pondering it. “That's agood name. I'm Emily. Emily Bauer.”

She extended a hand as he came over. Emily was relieved that the glowing fire concealed the blush in her cheeks. He took her hand in a gentlemanly way, almost bending to kiss it, but thinking better of that. She liked him, and found she could hardly keep from smiling herslf. He was a brief and gentle current upon a sea she felt lost upon. He was her savior of the moment. He was an elixer but not a cure.

As for John, he could feel himself getting swept away with her. He wished to fall to her, take her into his arms and kiss her. She was a fresh country for a man who believed he had lost his. Her eyes fell to the gold band on his finger and lingered here.

“Got my own long story,” he said.

“That's your business.”