Creative Sentences

He walked home slowly, feeling the unpleasant squish in his boot with every step. What he wanted was to drop
the woman off and just forget the whole thing. She was very...odd. He found himself smiling. Odd in a strangely
appealing sort of way, however. And she had a fine throat. He'd wanted to touch his lips to it more than once.
But what was this fixation with tea? Well, what he'd do was take a bath and change clothes. He'd wait until
after that to decide about the blasted tea.

She was definitely English, had that well-educated accent he preferred in a woman. A writer, was she? He
hoped it was only books she wrote and not something unpleasant like investigative journalism.

He decided on a shower, not the tub, and stood a long while, his palms on the shower wall, letting the hot
water beat down on the top of his bent head. Little streams of light brown water from the mud washed
down the drain between his feet. So much of life had washed down the drain lately. He watched the
brown fade into paler shades and then into clear water as his skin cleansed. "Gone," he whispered,
"all of it."

Stepping out of the shower he toweled himself dry rather roughly then pulled on jeans and an emerald
green shirt. He blew dry his hair, still not sure about what to do with the tea invitation. The woman lived
in such damn proximity to his house, he figured it might be best to find out a bit more about her so he'd
know how much he'd need to avoid encountering her in the future. Yes, that was reason enough to return.

Julie unbuttoned her blouse, letting her wet clothes simply fall in limp piles on the tile floor. She'd tend to
them later. Pouring half a bottle of bubble bath under the faucet's fall, she slipped into the big tub and just
lay there for a while, leaning her head on the back edge and closing her eyes as her brain filled with
sentences of his return. He would come and he'd be wearing green. Somehow the thought of him in
green was right. He'd been dressed in tans and deep brown before, but he would come in green.

And what would his name be. Leicester? No. It would be something solid, like William or Richard
or John. Solid. That was a good word. He was solid like the trees of the woods. He'd lifted her,
carried her, so easily. She felt feminine in his presence. Yes, that was it. His masculinity made her
feel extremely female.

Julie, a part of her brain, the practical part, insisted. You came all the way here to be alone, remember.
So you could write.

I AM writing, the other part of her mind parried. I'm writing Richard...or William...whoever he is. I'm
writing him. So bugger off and leave me be!

She picked up a large sponge and began to wipe it down an arm. It was nice, clean and soapy, but his
hands in the stream had been nicer. She paused in her wiping, remembering the feel of his touch on her back.
The whole experience had been like living a chapter in a book. She would, in fact, use it. She'd alter it a bit
and put it in the book she was writing. She'd thought to go for a walk and come home to find her muse, but,
no, she'd found him in the mud and in the water of the stream.

Dried and dressed in a soft peach-colored silk dress, she made tea. He would come. Please, please, he
would come. The sentences she'd mentally written were clear as memories in her head. She filled a small
plate with an array of sweet biscuits, got out two cups, two spoons, sugar and cream.

When a hand knocked on her door, she closed her eyes in relief. "Hello again," she said, opening it to him.

"Robert." He said his name, inclining his head slightly.

Solid. She had been right. Her eyes took in his deep green shirt. "Come in, Robert," she said. "The tea is
steeping."