As Faith brushed her long, sweeping hair, the rose fragrance of her conditioner graced her flushed nostrils, bringing back memories of the shower that she had taken 20 minutes ago. Life was so much simpler then, she thought, beholding her cloud-white visage in the mirror of her armoire.
A little bird came to the window, and singing sweetly, pulled a loose string from the herbal cachet that Faith had lain on the sill that morning. "It's all right, my little friend," said Faith, her voice ringing like the tones of a miniature church organ, "use it for your nest. Bring up your little ones in peace, as I shall too, some day, I hope." She sighed, and returned to brushing her hair, gazing out with longing at the sweeping fields of grain in the little valley below.
"Some day, my little friend."
Faith's heart fluttered like a little bird, perhaps a parakeet, or maybe a wood thrush, but certainly without the sharp beak and claws, within her chest as she glimpsed the hulking form of Eduardo, the rough-hewn farmhand from Italy, silently gliding between the sweeping beds of pansies, petunias, and daisies that grew beneath her bed chamber. She quickly withdrew behind her ruffled curtains and forced her eyelashes to stop beating, from fear of bruising her cheeks.
Eduardo was a hard beast with strong, calloused hands and a charming country manner. He was schooled only in the rigorous ways of the fields, yet he played the viola with sweeping precision and was in the habit of passionately citing Shakespeare's sonnets among these flowers when he thought he was alone. Faith knew at that moment that she must have him have her, no matter what the consequences, even if a few of the neighbors didn't think that such things should, technically speaking, be done very often.
Let's communicate about our feelings. For the sake of our relationship, I need some feedback.