Page 4 of The Strength Of A Woman

Little fresh things like me.Nicely groomed fools ready for a life of pain.

Delicate and fearful.

Silent and compliant.

That surely isn’t me.But they can hope.

I pick up my phone just as it beeps for the third time.

This time my eyes dip, and just as fast, I pull upright.

“Rory,” I murmur quietly, typing out a message. “Yes. Everything’s fine,” I say to myself as I input the words.

She’s worried because she hasn’t seen me the entire morning. I tell her I’m in my room, and soon after, I put my phone down and rise to my feet.

A soft knock on the door alerts me to her presence.

I drop the sheet to the bed and walk across the bedroom, barefoot.

Her eyes dip to my shorts and my long-sleeved top––it’s not what I usually wear when I go to sleep––as I open the door and invite her in.

My nights have been marred by my sweaty sexual fantasies as of late, so wearing any clothes at night is usually out of the question.

Last night was different, though.

Her eyes lift to meet mine when I show her to the bed.

We both sit.

I bring my knees to my chest and hug myself as I study her.

She looks fresh like a sunny morning on the heels of spring, with her long, silky hair tied at the nape of her neck with a blue ribbon, a vintage-looking white camisole with delicate spaghetti straps and floral embroidered lace along the neckline and the hemline, and a pair of long, flowing, dusty-blue pants.

Bejeweled sandals complete her look, while her shoulders shine from the sun as it makes love to her skin. It fits her.

She looks like she’s spent the morning outside.

For sure, she looks rested, unlike me.

Even without the critical reflection of a mirror, I know I have a venomous snake hair head that would make Medusa sigh with envy, while the skin around my eyes is dry and dark like the eye of Etna.

Her gaze trails down before she looks at me again.

It’s like the weight of the last few hours sits on my chest, making it impossible for me to speak.

“Things all right?” she asks, wrapping her soft hand around my forearm.

“They’re fine,” I say dryly.

A timid smile tilts her lips.

“How were things last night?”

I suck in a long breath and lean back against the headboard, my head tilted back as I look at her.

“Things were all right. They left me alone. Haven’t talked to me again. So far,” I murmur, tearing my gaze away from hers.

“Any news on the arranged marriage project?”