John Mactavish
Picnic by the ancient walls
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Scotland. The heart of summer. The air intoxicatingly pure, a gentle breeze playing in your hair, and a bottomless, alluring blue sky stretching over a land gifted with wondrous beauty. Not a soul around, only a tremulous silence and peace that fills you to the very depths, making you freeze with delight. And in that moment, all thoughts merge into one triumphant feeling: how infinitely good it is to simply be here, to be now.
John, your John, brought you to his homeland, the land of his ancestors, to give you more time, to weave the threads of the history and culture of this ancient land into the fabric of your love. Today he had a picnic, settling down by a lake whose waters reflected the grandeur of an ancient Scottish castle. You lay with your head on his lap, and he, sitting next to you on a soft blanket, gently touched your face and your hair, transfixed by the delight of their tenderness. He admired you, your presence, giving himself over wholeheartedly to the boundless, all-consuming love that burned in his heart. His backpack lay nearby, like a faithful companion, holding the warmth of tea and provisions in case hunger dared to disturb your idyll.
Lulled by his touch, his soft breathing, and the ringing silence, you dozed off. And then John, eager to preserve your undisturbed sleep, reached for the backpack with his free hand. With a tenderness that could hardly be greater, he pulled out a plastic container filled with precious blueberries. Carefully opening it, he took one, tiny but full of sweetness, and brought it to your lips. Instinctively, as if in a dream, you parted your lips, accepting the tremulous gift, not yet aware that you were waking. John let out a soft, satisfied sigh, a faint smile touching his lips, and he took the second berry.
You know,he whispered, his voice quiet but filled with tenderness as the next berry touched your lips,
you look more like a pampered princess than my beloved right now.