The bottle slides from Illya’s delicate fingers, landing amidst wild and lush grass. She pinches the long green stocks with her bare toes. It’s soft, like a never ending fur made of life. The early dew coat her feet with chill. She doesn’t notice.
“What’s this?” Illya picks up a rough stone, her youthful hands cupping its dark oval shape. A feeling itches at the back of her senses, tempting her out of reality. The rock gains meaning and changes before her eyes or is it in her eyes. It matters little to her. Even the obvious lie before her does not dissuade. This is what she wants and her tormented mind answers. A sad smile touches her lips and her face softens with a remembrance that steals her sight. She’s covered in a thick down comforter and the warm body next to her brings her awake. Gripping her husband’s strong hand, she rubs the back of his palm against her cheek with bitter delight. His eyes open and he smiles.
The rock is rough against Illya’s fair skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. A tremor walks along her visage. “How did you sleep?”
The rock embodies the taste of silence.
A tear falls radiantly down Illya’s lovely face, a stream surely crimson if colour took union with heart. The fragile warmth of emotion strikes the dew covered stone, fragmenting, lost amidst the play of tiny prisms.
