Two weeks in a spot just a ways up from Dublin.
“Would you like to do something tomorrow, or do nothing tomorrow?”
She knew him. A book in his hand on a cool June evening, and she didn’t ask, “What are you reading?” or “Is it any good?” The title was on the cover, and the fact that he was still reading it told her it was good.
He smiled. The woman was amused by life, trim, just the right amount of pretty to smile at.
He’d have snapped something coarse if she’s asked lots of empty, foolish questions. It was a lifetime habit that had earned him predictable consequences again and again. He had scaly bits all over him capable of leaving deep abrasions. She accepted the bad in him, mostly; and, neither did she apologize for her own natural spikes and armor. There are no smooth-skinned humans.
Late, low sun making the pub across the way glow invitingly. Distant sounds of children, indistinct, thankfully. He breathed the dusky laxness into his lungs. A squat brick wall protected this brilliant garden behind their rental cottage. Foxgloves and Bellflower and so many more. Nature works in riot and chaos, like a woman; best to let her bluster.
Had they been together three months? Not quite. She was a lot to think about, but he didn’t think too hard. That was the gift.
“Nothing, if that’s good for you,” he told her, not looking up from his book but not able to keep his eyes from smiling at the sound of her.
“Nothing sounds perfect,” she said. She set down a dewy glass for each of them.
She knew him.