“It is looking at me.”
“What is?” I was dozing off in the delicious sun on the first dry weekend we’d had in a while. The lush grass under me felt springy.
I thought the word was so apt. Springy. The double meaning of the season and the bouncy vivaciousness of it all.
“It is looking at me.”
I inhaled slowly with more resignation than irritation. I might’ve known this would not go as I had envisioned. While I was content to lie still and let the sounds of the birds and the hiss of the breeze and the faraway whir of a tractor in someone’s field fill and nourish me, Marlee had been tugging on grass-blades and clucking her tongue and shifting positions every three seconds.
She’s always been flighty. A flit-bit full of frown and furrow, forever on the edge of tumbling from one thing to another.
I loved it about her. She was the counter-weight to my molasses and the engine to my stasis. Her hypervigilance also made my idea of a relaxing afternoon where we do nothing, an utterly foreign thing.
Perhaps an even frightening one.
I opened my eyes. “What’s looking at you?”
“That.”
I raised myself on an elbow and scanned the field. There was no one there.
Marlee sat, violin-string-tight, eyes glued ahead.
I followed her line of sight. Nothing. Not even a bunny. Just a tractor that most likely belongs to the farmer whose land we might be trespassing on. I squinted against the glare – the cab was empty – there was no one there.
Marlee did not move.
Resigned now, I sat up and stared harder. A caterpillar undulated up a flower’s stem by my knee. A bird dove at the tractor, perched momentarily on a mirror, and flew away.
“The bird?” I chanced.
Marlee shook her head but her eyes remained trained on the vehicle. “The tractor,” she said. “That thing has eyes. I swear it blinked at me.”
For Crimson’s Creative Challenge
