Shadows of Hope

Chapter 2

Squealing loudly, the deceptively strong woman wraps her arms about my neck, enclosing it in a death grip.

Sputtering, her words come out as a high pitch shriek, "what do you think you are doing? You might drop me. Put me down." She squirms frantically in my arms, causing us both to stagger to the left before I regain my balance.

After a few futile attempts to breathe normally my reply is laced with exasperation, automatic but stilted, "Calm down woman... I'm doing...what you asked...playing your knight...in shinning armor."

As if realizing her frenzied motions are causing issues, her grip loosens a minuscule amount, enough that I am able to take in a deep cleansing gulp of fresh air. Those Hollywood movies always depict the hero valiantly assisting the heroine without even breaking a sweat. Next time I meet with Director Howie Cooper I'll have to mention the extreme discrepancy. Carrying a woman down a fairly rocky decline is no walk in the park.

Rolling her eyes, her response is typical sass, "If I'ld wanted a hero I would have called on Captain America; he's hot." Her shoulders relax as she leans into my chest, loose strands of silky hair tickling my nose.  Scents of lemon and coconut are intoxicating; I'll be dreaming of the tropics for weeks.   

"What is it with girls and superheroes? Those guys get all the chicks," I lament while carrying on a slow but steady pace, stepping over rocks and tree roots carefully, very aware of the mouthy cargo ensconced in my arms.  While I'm not People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive, I am used to a fair amount of women's appreciation.  Facing indifference is a new and unpleasant experience. 

Wait, do I even want her attention? She's high maintenance for one, and she snaps more than a starving crocodile.  

As if sensing my unease, I'm seared by a reflective gaze.  Instead of the expected and perhaps anticipated sarcastic barb, an attempt at humor pierces the air. "He actually has muscles," she teases, a small smile gracing her lips as she stares dreamily off into space. 

Briefly I entertain the idea of asking my agent for a part in the next superhero blockbuster before humbling myself.    Affecting a deflated sigh I pout appropriately, "thanks Sassafras, way to burst my ego there." 

She stares unblinking off into the treeline, a genuine smile breaking through her tough facade; a rainbow after a dark storm. 

"Happy to help," she chirps brightly.  I wonder if she realizes her moods need a barometer to gauge from one moment to the next.  

A ladybug lands gently on my right shoulder and begins to descend my back.  Ever so lightly a soft hand slides down rippling muscles in order to catch the red lady.  Flinching at the intimate touch, I swallow audibly.    

"Ladybug," a soft feminine whisper floats next to my ear. It's not even a true caress, simply a breathy murmur, but my arms are covered in goosebumps and my throat constricts, leaving me completely tongue tied.  

Pressed up against each other, both heartbeats pound in synch. I'd be lying if I said I held apathy for this woman. Irritation, yes, attraction possibly, but an absence of feeling, no way.  The silence is almost unbearable, broken only by a barrage of questions.  Relieved for the distraction, the inquiry is welcome. 

"Why did you call me Sassafras? Isn't that some type of tea? Is that the way Southerners insult people?" 

Unrepentant, I grin like a Cheshire cat. Those questions are simple, uncomplicated.  Nothing like the dynamite cradled in my arms. "You're sassy and I like tea. If you had some red hair instead of that brown mess you could be Fireball." Gazing off into the landscape, visions of the little spitfire as a red-head cloud my mind.