Write a Novel in November, Post #6

They met on a Saturday. The snow was clinging to the windows of the shed and she was inside. She was counting the pennies in the ceramic jar. She liked to count in tens and push the penny-towers aside until she had an entire city. She liked to smell her fingers every now and then, sniff the copper, then go back to work.

And he liked the way his hands smelled after a day of making piles. He liked to break the land apart and see what was underneath it. When she found him, she asked what kind of surgeon he was, and why he didn't wear a white coat, and why his tools were so large. He let her go on and on about the pennies, about how she was building an entire nation out of pennies. He let her laugh at herself while he pointed the tip of the shovel to the earth. He drew a circle with the tip, then pushed down, letting the middle of the circle collapse into the dirt.

She watched him dig. She walked around his large body, positioning herself diagonally behind his back like a shadow. When he turned so did she. Like the sun. Like the sun telling him what time of day it was. She circled around him and collapsed in the dirt.

Get up! Get up! Sometimes I yell out of love. Sometimes I yell out of jealousy. Sometimes I yell , because the planets are cruel, because the sun is cruel, because I am cruel.