She didn’t weep when she sliced her thumb, no matter that the wound was sudden and deep; it was the tang of the grapes that smarted her eyes with tears. As she crushed the grapes, their purple blood trickled through her fingers, and their aroma rose to tickle her nostrils and her mind with a thousand summer memories. Memories best left alone and forgotten.
Dmitri followed her faithfully with his own set of pruners, and saw the red blood mingle with the purple. “You’re truly set on becoming the first four-fingered girl of the village, yes?” he teased. The beads of blood glistened, reflecting the light like tiny gems. He swabbed her thumb and tied it up like a mini mummy, sparing the fruit from being christened in blood. The blood seemed to agitate him, but she could tell he was trying not to show it. “Unsanitary,” he explained, taking care to avert his hazel eyes from her searching gaze. He tightened the bandage abruptly, but she didn’t flinch. She could feel her hot pulse echoing through his touch.
Yet even something as solid, as tender, as that, could not ebb the flow of memories. The sunlight cast its gold sheen on the expanse of the inherited vineyard. The leafy emerald streams rippled with the passage of the August breeze, grape clusters bobbing up and down like flecks of purple froth. When the light slanted through the vineyard—like so—and when the crows and jays fluttered against the lavender skies—like so—it was too easy to trick herself into believing that her father was just a couple rows down, pruning the grapevine more efficiently than she, and that her mother would appear any minute now on the wooden veranda and yell that it’s getting dark and they’d be cutting off more fingers than grapes if they continued any longer. She reveled in the fantasy a moment longer.
In this liminal space between light and darkness, there was a crack between death and life, when everything was stained in pain, and everything was etched with hope. At such moments her heart still overflowed, like wine that continues to be poured even though the flask is filled, like grapes crushed into a basket that creaks beneath their weight. Her mind was the fibers of this basket that contained the blood of the grapes, the blood of her thoughts, the blood of her heartache.
Dmitri relieved her of the basket as the sky dimmed. Somewhere, her aunt was calling for her, voice shrill and nasal and furious.
Enough, he said. Tomorrow is another day. His voice bled strength into her limbs. There was neither time nor darkness enough for anything more than a brief brushing of their fingers. Whistling, he turned to follow the rest of the hired hands to the washroom, a simple man with a simple mission. She watched his curly hair cling to the nape of his neck and realized she wanted to kiss it.
"Angreek87"
1 comment:
Correction, please! "The BLOOD of Heartache." Thanks :)
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