Page 53 of Old-Fashioned

One, she wasn’t into materialistic crap.

Two, we had the same choices, color-wise for our furniture. Black couches and chairs, and that pretty light sanded wood for the rest of the furniture.

Three, she had a few pictures, but they were all of her and an older woman.

I could see the love the woman had for Birdie clear as day.

I was staring at one picture of Birdie when she couldn’t be more then fifteen, she had her hair up in a messy bun and flour on her cheek, her head thrown back in laughter, when I heard nails clicking on the hardwood floors.

Turning, I saw that Birdie had pulled on a pair of leggings, and a tank top that was flowy at the bottom.

Her hair was still wet and trailed down her back.

She looked around me, and at the picture, then she smiled, “I loved that day.”

I grinned, “What were y’all making?”

She chuckled, “That was the first time I attempted to make bread. Miss Maggie told me it reminded her of a soapy sponge that was left in the dirty dishwater too long.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’m glad you had her.”

She nodded, “Me too.”

And with that she headed to her kitchen, I took one last look at the pictures and then at her living room and couldn’t help but think that her stuff would look good mixed in with mine.

And then I couldn’t help but think about the fact that yes, this house was small, but if this was where she wanted to live the rest of our lives, we would make it great.

Yes, I would sell that land and that house if this house was Birdie’s dream.

And I knew that as long as I crawled into bed beside her at night and woke up there each morning with her in my arms, I didn’t really care where we lived.

With that thought, I turned, and then followed her.

Just as I made it into the kitchen, she was busy pulling out a bowl with a red lid on it from her fridge.

“So, what’s for dinner?” I asked her.

She looked up at me and smiled, “Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, and homemade rolls.”

My stomach growled, “What can I do to help?”

She winked at me, “If you can get drinks out of the fridge, and take a seat, I’ll get everything going.”

It would seem, that I wasn’t the only one that paid attention to what the other liked.

Because when I opened the fridge and saw what was on the shelf beside her cans of soda, I moved.

I left the fridge door open, stepped to Birdie, wrapped my arm around her waist, hauled her body up, and just as she opened her mouth to say something I claimed her mouth.

It wasn’t for long moments until I broke our kiss and whispered. “Thank you.”

She looked at me, shock and awed, and whispered, “Thank you? For what?”

“What you have in your fridge for me. No one, except my family has ever cared to get things for me, things that I like.”

“I feel the same way, Abel, damaged recognizes damaged. But I think when we get to that point, we’re going to end up whole.”