She never believed him. He owned a farm house, but someone else owned the barn and fields. His hands were huge and strong, but sensitive. A potter’s hands.
“You’re an artist,” she said. “Admit it.”
They were in bed, katydids singing through the window screens.
“Don’t call me that, girl.”
“I could call you worse.”
“Yes. An old artist.”
“No! I wouldn’t!”
His hands were on her, transforming her indignation, and they kissed.
Out beyond the barn and the fields that were not theirs, heat lightening flickered.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #345 at Velvet Verbosity.