A Beginning
The man was having some thoughts in the middle of a field. Thoughts about love affairs and loss of affairs and loaded questions that were irritatingly good at moving the love bits out of the affairs.
It had been, yet again, an unpleasant, relationally counter-productive, morning.
He heard the noise first. He looked up. Headed toward him just like a rocket barrelling in the wrong direction was.... Well, who it was came to a sudden stop without a single screech directly in front of him.
The reason for this un-screeching phenomenon, like most of its kind, is not very phenomenal at all. A woman on a broom tends to put on breaks of a metaphoric sort — which becomes rather obvious once you realize they lack metal.
The man could have sworn he heard a screech.
'You're in my way,' the woman said.
The man tried to respond, but having been previously unfamiliar with broom-riding females lacked the jaw strength.
'Maybe you could, you know,' she said as nicely as she was able, 'move out of it? Er, please?'
Nice was not her forte.
Being unfamiliar with what other men might do under the circumstances, or perhaps just being a decent bloke who recognized the who in Who's Who when he saw her, the man stepped aside.
'Thanks,' said the woman, and sped through the emptied air.
The man had no idea why he needed to move, no notion as to the physics of broom-flight, and a distinct feeling in the back of his mind that the broom-flying woman was convinced he was less than bright. But none of that mattered, as he stared after her.
The man had some more thoughts. Thoughts about fortuitous meetings in fields, and adding please to the ends of requests, and not getting pummeled when he could have easily been pummeled.
Love was odd, he thought, his gazed fixed on broom dust.
The woman had some thoughts too. Thoughts about flight trajectory, and wind speed, and men who moved out of the way without a fuss.
Love was odd, the woman thought as she turned the broom around.