Ears of Corn

The sun was hot and golden. It was always a warming glowing and enchanting light. It was just in that phase when the cooler bluer clear light of the day warmed. The crisp cobalt sky transcended into that golden dusty colour of a perfect late afternoon. She in this time of summer so often thought of impulse.

The kind of impulse that made a charming vintage romance film leaps from the screen with life and excitement. The kind of impulse that makes you smile for weeks, the kind of impulse that you want to keep a secret just to brighten up your smiles to yourself. That kind of golden, perfect impulse.

She had a few plans that she hadn't quite put into impulsive practice. The one at the forefront of her mind was something sweet and overloaded with summer sun. She had in her mind, a boy aged around sixteen or seventeen, not so much younger than herself. Small enough, however to be more easily susceptible, young enough to find running through golden corn and hanging from the branches of trees in the summer haze, spectacular. Something to beautifully grant life to her summer.

As it was she cycled down dusty trails and over the flat fenland roads in the hot midday sun, at evening the golden entrails of the district. She dreamt of her impulse, of course she knew it was a rather distant sepia cloud of imagination, but it would make her
summer. She would make it. She cycled down a new and deserted hay brown track through ears of waving corn, on the cusp of harvest. Her little brown bike, her self fuelled transport, it mud guards no longer shiny and its basket filled with dusty debris, faithfully carried her
along. She looked up from her rich yellow-orange hot dusty track, and she saw someone.

He was radiantly beautiful, the kind of country farm hand every middle-aged woman dreams of. He looked about seventeen, maybe older, maybe younger, she couldn't tell. He wore a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, and the edges a dirty lovingly well warm dark cream. The edges of his collar were casually creased and his fist two button undone. His complexion golden and lightly tanned from days outside in the British summer. His hair was rumplestiltskin's hay ruffled by the breeze of the plains. He was her impulse. He was the golden boy of her dusty dreams.

She slowed her cycling down, as she advanced towards him, she swung her leg over. Balancing on one side of the cycle she slowed, pushed out the cycle stand, stopped, stepped off, softly she kissed him. The crisp cobalt sky had transcended to that dusty cornfield gold, through his ruffled hair it dappled their skin as they kissed.

She stopped, and smiled, a smile filled with the shine and glow of fulfilment. The sun still streaking dustily down. He smiled too; of course confusion was present in his expression.
- Why? He asked her, running a finger across her rosy cheek. The answer, to her it was obvious
- Impulse. He smiled at that.
She kissed his soft neck and ran into the golden ears of cereal, not wanting to leave what she had found, she stopped and reached out her hand to him. For now he was a part of her world.

She ran and ran through those shining ears of corn, still holding his hand, smiling all the way. Feeling the sun on her shoulders, the dirt on her feet, the corn on her legs. She stumbled in a dusty heap, he
stumbling with her. He softly kissed her, on their improvised bed of broken corn. The hot air was hotter still between them. He held her softly. She moved her head to rest on his shoulder and from there looked up. The blue, blue sky was framed with waving gold.

She stood up, casting him from her. She stood, and soaked up the sunlight, she span like a windmill in the breeze and held her arms outstretched, eyes closed, feeling the warmth. The beautiful no too hot nor too cold warmth, it was such a perfect illusive balance. The
light breeze that fought away stagnation on that warm sun-soaked day, lightly tousled the hairs on her arm. The feeling of warmth and of an almost perfect moment compounded. The golden waving landscape was her
playground, oh how she played.

The sky rumbled as her stomach did sometimes between meals. She wondered in that split second before the wetness, what does the sky hunger?
Then of course it came, like a bag of cold blunt seamstresses' pins onto her outstretched arms. Then the rain came down and washed the sunshine out.
She opened her eyes, and saw her tousled boy running toward her. He scooped her up into his arms, as she hoped he would, and continued to run.
It was almost as though she had taken him from an idealised film. The kind where love is the perfect state, a euphoric trance. The kind of thing that blows everything else out of the water. It doesn’t
matter that the two parties in question have never spoken before, doesn't matter that they don't know each others names, doesn't matter if one is a murderer, or a lawyer. Not that they would be, not in one of those saccharine numbers. They'd always fall in love anyway. Unbelievable as they were, she in all her majestic confidence had
created that for herself. That perfect state. And why did It matter what he was, she only wanted his love for summer.

The rain still poured. The dust fell. It was no more. The ground was damp. The air was dank. The rain litter pattered. The gold still weaved through.
Indeed it weaves, not anymore through those translucent, and transcendent of droplets, but those yellow and green willow's arms. The bent branches of weeping, not yet womping, willow encompassed them entirely. There she thought romantically and rather simply, it was a natural umbrella, perhaps a Victoria blueprint.

He, oh wonderful summerboy, placed her down, perfectly gently upon the dusted dark almost oxidized copper earth. She pushed her well-groomed toes through the grainy dirt. She'd not noticed that her shoes had gone, but of course she was not loosing her control. She was simply enjoying her well-formulated impulse, she was living it.