Swinging

He was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans as the sun swung low over them. He was thinking about his classes and what all he had due in the upcoming week, with a feeling of stress and, as he thought about it, fear. He wondered what he might be forgetting as he cataloged his assignments, and thought about the teachers he could wheedle extensions from. He thought about a girl he had been talking to in History and whether or not he might have a chance with her--he felt himself to be a sort of hero to her, for helping her study this big test they'd just had. He thought about the dishes he had yet to do tonight.

She too was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans, the sun swinging low. It burned a dull red, the color of the roads after rain. The sand roads, speckled with invisible but tainting particles of clay. It was beautiful the way it hung, and very warm in the dying evening. Grasshoppers flitted about from plant to plant in their endless search for... what did grasshoppers search for? They were ceaseless in their leaping, though, and for every one that landed, ten more took flight. The sun hung so low, now hardly just a sliver of grapefruit red, burning brighter as it fell lower over the edge. The back and forth of the swing was lulling, and made for good sleep. She could begin to imagine her eyes closing if she'd wanted.

Then there was also this paper that was coming due in two weeks, and he wasn't sure about what all came before the actual paper. Plus, the professor for that class was a huge stickler for grammar and so he'd have to go down to the writing lab at some point. Was she sleeping, now, he wondered, but was afraid to look over. He felt sick. He felt anxious and jittery and sick, but he couldn't begin to tap his foot on the porch, or he'd feel weird about it, and she might start asking about it, and besides it might kill the mood he'd tried to cultivate. Did she like sunsets and porch swings and crap like that? He wondered if this other girl, this one he'd met through a friend, liked that crap. She had been homely, but still very pretty, with a sunburned face and black hair that fell down over it in a mess, poking every freckle it seemed like. And when was the next he worked, he wondered? He'd have to check the schedule. He wondered if she would ever want to marry him, and he was afraid that he'd never want to marry her.

The sun was just slipping over now, and the sky was still a beautiful, gem-colored color. It was so warm though, still, despite the sun going, and the swinging of the swing lulled her, and she felt safe and secure, and sound. And very beautiful. And very much at peace.