Using both hands I jammed my crown down tight onto my head, hair flattened against my skull, braid pinned underneath the band, golden metal blinding anyone who came within a hundred-yard radius of the tiny princess-at-arms, guarding her own imagination.
She didn't have to do it alone.
The prince was there, too. In his jeans with the perpeputally ripped-open back pocket from putting heavy tools in it absentmindedly, too-big flannel shirt, his own crown crushing his beautiful red curls he stood just slightly in front of her, bearing a sword with a rusted blade cut into with chips, worn dull from use fighting her nightmares. Fighting his own.
He adjusted his crown so it was slightly cocked to match his eyebrow and set his mouth in a determined line.
Ready, Bridgie?
I don't know, Locket. Are we?
***
He came in tonight, two bags of groceries in one hand, truck keys in the other. Keys are tossed onto the table in the front hall and his arm slides around my waist, pulling me in tight, folding the groceries against my back as he can't resist a full embrace.
I haven't seen him all day so I'm fine to have a bottle of orange juice suddenly pressed against my back.
Ready?
Do we have plans?
We do.
And they are?
We're going to make dinner together, just you and I and this bottle of red wine (the one I thought was orange juice) and we're going to have it in the gazebo.
It's cold and raining-
I thought you figured out the heater.
I keeping forgetting it has one.
We made chicken alfredo for two with bowtie pasta and garlic rolls and opened the wine and took a basket full of candles out with us and a blanket big enough for two and we savoured our quiet, private supper like we rarely get to. It was only when he got up to pack up the dishes that I saw the sword propped up against the back of his chair.
She didn't have to do it alone.
The prince was there, too. In his jeans with the perpeputally ripped-open back pocket from putting heavy tools in it absentmindedly, too-big flannel shirt, his own crown crushing his beautiful red curls he stood just slightly in front of her, bearing a sword with a rusted blade cut into with chips, worn dull from use fighting her nightmares. Fighting his own.
He adjusted his crown so it was slightly cocked to match his eyebrow and set his mouth in a determined line.
Ready, Bridgie?
I don't know, Locket. Are we?
***
He came in tonight, two bags of groceries in one hand, truck keys in the other. Keys are tossed onto the table in the front hall and his arm slides around my waist, pulling me in tight, folding the groceries against my back as he can't resist a full embrace.
I haven't seen him all day so I'm fine to have a bottle of orange juice suddenly pressed against my back.
Ready?
Do we have plans?
We do.
And they are?
We're going to make dinner together, just you and I and this bottle of red wine (the one I thought was orange juice) and we're going to have it in the gazebo.
It's cold and raining-
I thought you figured out the heater.
I keeping forgetting it has one.
We made chicken alfredo for two with bowtie pasta and garlic rolls and opened the wine and took a basket full of candles out with us and a blanket big enough for two and we savoured our quiet, private supper like we rarely get to. It was only when he got up to pack up the dishes that I saw the sword propped up against the back of his chair.