Drifting

My friend Claire says my short he/she stories are really love poems. What do you think?

Drifting
By Laura McHale Holland

She is a rainbow fading as she loads the laundry. He is an old Chevy idling on the couch. He sees a brilliant arch of color turning as she reaches for the Tide. She turns toward him and sees a fast ride down a dirt road on a long-ago sunburned evening.

She shakes the detergent box and hears seashell and driftwood chimes. She pours the powder into the washer, closes the lid, turns the dial. The machine rumbles, the waterfall comes.

“What would you like for lunch?” she asks.

The coffee table is a creaking pier, the carpet a beach of turquoise sand.

“I think I’d like ...” He closes his eyes and becomes a boat drifting in a leather sea.

She sits in the rocker facing him. She rocks. She rocks. She rocks and becomes the wind. She becomes the wind blowing him to shore.

He opens his eyes.

“What would you like for lunch?” she asks.