J..

As the rain continued to pour outside, B. noticed that there was just a day before T. would return, and so he sat down beside the young woman with the short hair, and asked her, almost absent mindedly, whether she thought the beach house was fantastic. J was looking at the rain and whispered, it is, is it not. He watched her eyes glanced in his direction, and without a word, they darted back. And then she said, “But I do wish the rain will stop.”

The next morning, B. woke up early and quickly became absorbed in writing his next novel.  As B. was writing, he heard a burst of stifled giggling. It was J. . T must have came back last night, he thought. He could so easily imagine them now, nestling together, half dressed still, whispering sweet nothings, and kissing, in that tiny bedroom, on those white sheets, thrust against the mattress, on that creaking wood-work. He tried to continue writing, but that image, and the emotions aroused in him, which he could not properly describe - was it guilt or was it envy, distracted him; and so he picked up his cup of coffee, drank the remainder of it, and closed his eyes for a while, trying to regain concentration.

But it was not before long he heard J. and T. climbing  down the stairs, and they appeared, , he thought, perfectly, by his door. Both looked fresh with wet hair and scrubbed faces.  

“Hello, Mr B, how is the writing going? Shall we go for breakfast now?” T said.

“Yes, I look forward to hearing all about your trip. New York, was it?” 

“It is all business really. I had no choice, I had to be there, bloody hell. Away from my love ones, you know.” T said, with a twinkle in his eye, as he gave J. a slight peck on her cheeks.