The wind was chilled, but not unpleasantly so. Winter had taken a turn for the temperate on this particular afternoon, and allowed the man and woman to sit together on twin sections of split wood behind the farmhouse. The sun glared on the melting crusts of snow, and a steady, rattling drip of water ran down from the house eaves behind them. The broad-chested man had wrapped his cloak around the woman's shoulders, as he often did when they were out-of-doors. But he did not seem to mind the cold beneath his thick, woolen shirt.
"What about this one?" he was saying, pointing a meaty finger at a rectangular piece of parchment on his knees. The ends of the paper were curled, framing a messy, scribbled picture of a face.
The woman with the fiery-red hair turned her head slightly. She glanced at the charcoal portrait for a few seconds, then shook her head and looked away again.
"All right," said the man, undaunted. He slid another drawing out from the pile in his lap. A man with flowing, wavy hair and a bearded chin looked up at him with oblong, black blobs for eyes. "Who's this?"
Again, the woman turned her eyes obediently to observe the presented sketch. After studying it briefly, she shrugged and glanced away.
"You don't know, or you don't want to say?" he challenged in a gentle, bass voice. His eyes were the color of mud and soil, earthy and stolid. He let them linger on her cheek while she avoided his gaze, and she could feel them boring into the side of her skull.
She remained silent. The cool breeze rolled through the farmyard, rustling the browned grass and making the ends of her burnished hair dance around her cheeks.
After a time, the man sighed through his nose. "Don't you wish to get better?"
Several minutes passed without a response from the woman. The man seemed as patient and enduring as a rock, remaining beside her, watchful and still. At last, she reached over without turning her head, snagged the pile of drawings, and violently flipped them over so they were face-down against his thighs.
After a quick flash of surprise, the man chuckled deeply. "All right. All right." He leaned over slightly, his voice strained and raspy. "No more of that for now." His thick fingers plucked a withered, dry dandelion that had endured in the shadow of his log-seat. Straightening up, he held it out in front of her face. "What's this?"
Eyes the color of a summer sea shifted to observe the offered object.
"It's a flower," she said.
