The next day was Saturday.
Everything seemed to slow down on that day. The flow of time itself felt sluggish, with each second passing by in a leisurely manner. Even the second hand's ticking appeared to take its time, as if it, too, had adopted a slower rhythm.
The sunshine appeared out of the fog and shattered from the clouds.
On summer days, it gets bright in the early morning. The sunshine was so fresh, and it just shone with golden light.
The flowers in Hampton blossomed and served as a foil to each other. Some birds fell on the sill and knocked at the window with their mouths, and then they just flew away.
It was summertime. The air in the morning became hot soon.
Luckily, Hampton had many plants and trees, so the temperature there was not so high. The fish in the pool was just swimming slowly and waggling in the water, shining brightly.
Irish had a good sleep last night. As she opened her eyes, she felt a strong sense of security.
Maybe it was because she heard the sound when birds flew away.
Maybe because she smelt the smell of sunshine.
Or maybe she had a good dream last night.
Or maybe...
She wanted to stretch herself idly, only to find herself soft and weak.
That was because she was nestled into Joseph's bosom.
His breath gently cascaded over her head, slow and steady, in a calming rhythm.
There was a clean smell in the air.
It was his.
A faint scent of wine still lingered in the air, subtle and delicate.
It smelt good.
Irish found it difficult to fall back asleep. Although she didn't sit up to check the time, she estimated it to be around 6 or 7 a.m. In the past, she had been accustomed to sleeping with thick curtains to shield her from any light disturbance. Even the slightest ray of light had the potential to disrupt her sleep. That's why, whether they were in Midtown Manhattan or Hampton, Joseph had made sure to provide her with thick curtains.
After getting married, one day, when all those flowers blossomed in the yard, Irish felt it was so wonderful to watch clean sunshine and green plants when she woke up every morning. So, she just removed those thick curtains.
Life possessed inherent beauty if only one could perceive it with open eyes and hold it close within the depths of their heart.
Joseph stirred and then withdrew his hands. Irish was once again enveloped in his embrace. Without opening his eyes, he nuzzled his face into her neck, taking in a deep breath, finding comfort in their closeness.
Irish felt a pleasant tingling sensation in her ears and gently brushed his earlobe, offering a soft smile. "Good morning, Mr. Dover," she greeted him.
Once again, he tightened his grip around her waist, remaining still as he murmured with a smile, "Good morning, Mrs. Dover."
Such a morning was really rare and precious.
The daylight was brilliant and golden, while the wind was quiet and soft. Thin dark coffee window gauze filtered the sunlight and wind in a soft way. Birds were singing happily. There was no traffic jam but just the smell of plants spreading to the room. It was as light as happiness.
If she had been faced with a flower field on such a morning, she must have picked a bunch of flowers and put it to the window. The flowers didn't have to be enchanting necessarily, Wild flowers were also good. And then she would have sat on the window with her feet naked to enjoy the sunshine.
When Irish was still abroad, she once spent her holidays in a small town called Ibracim, located in Teruel, the south-northern part of Spain. The town was small, but it was extremely beautiful.
It was already late when she arrived at the town. She had a good sleep. When she opened the window, she found that the town was so sweet. She walked through churches and local customs, experiencing the strong locality there. What stopped her footsteps was the scene where a girl was leaning against a window full of flowers. The girl wore a simple, light beige gown. Her hair was long and curly. On her head was a bouquet knitted by herself. The flower was white, and her shoes were also white. Besides, there was a boy in white.
The boy's skin was white, and his eyes were as blue as the Danube. He had clean and charming curly hair as well as pink lips. His fingers were slender. He was playing the guitar and singing.
What he was singing was a love song.
His voice was soft and gentle, which was just like murmuring.
While he was singing, he took a glance at the girl beside him now and then. The girl's face blushed as peach blossoms.
Love was the purest feeling in the world, just like that between the boy and girl in lbracim. Meanwhile, it was the most complicated one in the world, just like that between her and Joseph.
At that time, Irish was standing across the window and holding a cup of coffee in her hands. She selected a stone to sit down on. Listening to the music spreading across, she imagined what color her love would be.
What color was her love?
Having known Joseph for a long time, Irish didn't find a suitable color to describe their love yet. Maybe it was just as defined as the jewelry on her neck? Love of Reason?
Irish never doubted it because Joseph's love was both reasonable and realistic.
There were discrepancies between dreams and reality. The love of the boy and girl in lbracim, ideal love in her eyes, provided her with a referential framework for love. Once upon a time, love in her dreams was just like a charming cherry blossom rain, artistic and clear with a kind of pain.
She thought her lover would be such a boy.
One day, in the cherry blossom rain, he was standing there with a tall, thin figure and a clean shirt that even smelled of sunshine. Maybe he was just playing the violin, leaning against the tree. His side face was even cleaner and lovely than a girl's. The music just came from his slender fingers.
He had a sense of melancholy, but there was still the warmth of sunshine in his eyes. Her imaginary love began then.
But the fact was that her love started in a bar, where she drank a lot and then fell into a stranger's bosom.
Such a beginning was more realistic and worldly than her imagination.
Joseph was not the boy she had dreamed of.
Put it well, and he was a mature and reserved man. Even worse, he was so mature and reasonable. Such a man would never play the violin for her in the rain of cherry blossom.
This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦