This is my second foray into PROMPTuesdays, a creative writing venture hosted by San Diego Momma that offers exercises to be written in ten minutes in less than 150 words. I was reminded of its existence by Slouching Mom.
I thrust my fingers--shriveled from cold--into his elegant grip as we followed the hill away from church. He wore a wool jacket that hung straight until it belled out slightly at his knees. There were no wrinkles. There were no misplaced creases. There was no cat fur, either, or stray strands of yarn or lint or my blond hair or any of the things that attach to wool coats whenever I wear them. He was refined in presentation but obviously not at heart.
I traced a fat vein that traversed his wrist like an ink spill. It was as if his blood pumped harder to fight the chill. I pushed up against him while we walked, my hip against wool and thigh. His stride matched the blue-black beat in his veins. That darkness was everywhere. The rolls of land had been green, yellow, red, and earthy brown only a month before. Now there was the blue sheen of a dry mist, like weather on an unprotected painting.