Moons
1
Hadn’t meant to love him, had she? Hadn’t meant to love anyone, really - not Early, heart of stone, gone as the wind goes Early, belonging to nobody but herself, and those woods. What an ache that’d all become. Those ale-scented sailors and the muck they brought with them, all rough hands, eyes soft on the pretty girls that flirted with them on the docks. How embarrassing.
She made herself scarce that summer, kept to the quiet beyond the main roads, mindered her own business. He found her still, grinning, gold hoops in her ears.
“I knew your once father, once,” he’d said, still and serious in the twilight. “He was a legend.”
“Was,” Early said in a cold, serene way.
Her father had been gone so long she hardly knew him. Couldn’t pretend, anyway, that any of his accomplishments meant much at all to her, when he had failed quite terribly at the one obligation he owed her: as a father.
“You’re beautiful,” he said then.
She looked at him plainly, eyes scrutinous.
He offered a hand - calloused, strong. “Asa.”
After a moment, Early took it, hesitant. “Early.”
She would come to hate him. Asa -- his season long disappearances, his slow burn. But they fell in love, didn’t they? Amongst the haze and the ale, their heads heavy with it, dancing amongst the barnacle green cliffs, making love in the golden glow of summertime, and sunsets. There was magic in it, anyway, all summer long. In fall receding tides swept him away. Months would come and go, and one day he’d reappear, grinning, and whisk her away for a day, maybe two if their luck was with them.
But he always came back, weed-like in a way, warm in his body and soul. They fell asleep some summer nights in the hollow of an oak tree, and in the cool shimmering mist of morning ran together back to their beds, and back to the lives that were waiting for them. So it was.
She made herself scarce that summer, kept to the quiet beyond the main roads, mindered her own business. He found her still, grinning, gold hoops in her ears.
“I knew your once father, once,” he’d said, still and serious in the twilight. “He was a legend.”
“Was,” Early said in a cold, serene way.
Her father had been gone so long she hardly knew him. Couldn’t pretend, anyway, that any of his accomplishments meant much at all to her, when he had failed quite terribly at the one obligation he owed her: as a father.
“You’re beautiful,” he said then.
She looked at him plainly, eyes scrutinous.
He offered a hand - calloused, strong. “Asa.”
After a moment, Early took it, hesitant. “Early.”
She would come to hate him. Asa -- his season long disappearances, his slow burn. But they fell in love, didn’t they? Amongst the haze and the ale, their heads heavy with it, dancing amongst the barnacle green cliffs, making love in the golden glow of summertime, and sunsets. There was magic in it, anyway, all summer long. In fall receding tides swept him away. Months would come and go, and one day he’d reappear, grinning, and whisk her away for a day, maybe two if their luck was with them.
But he always came back, weed-like in a way, warm in his body and soul. They fell asleep some summer nights in the hollow of an oak tree, and in the cool shimmering mist of morning ran together back to their beds, and back to the lives that were waiting for them. So it was.