She watched his hands as he adjusted the sails. They were strong hands, capable hands, with veins that flexed as he untied a cleat, let out some line, then wrapped a figure eight again. She’d always loved his hands, had always loved how masculine they were.
He leaned against the transom, his legs extended on the bench with his ankles crossed. He squinted into the afternoon light to check the trim of the sail. His skin was sunbrowned and his hair sun-bleached. The crinkles around his eyes had deepened in their months at sea, travelling from island to island in their empty-nest years. His face was weathered now, and it suited him. He looked very alive. She watched him from beneath her sun hat. Sunlight glinted off his eyebrows and arm hairs. They shone gold, like they did all those years ago when she had first met him in the Florida Keys. She had told her girlfriend, “He’s the kind of man who is handsome now, and will become even moreso as he ages.”
She studied him and decided this prediction had been true. Age hardened him. Made him more rugged. As did being at sea. He was in his element here.
He glanced up at her and smiled his half smile. The one that said, I love you.
Photo credit: Sailboat by Scott Akerman
For the month of April, I will be publishing a 10-minute free write each day, initiated by a prompt from my prompt box. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. This is the second time fiction happened. I’ve always been afraid to write fiction – I like that it’s happening on its own.