A Crash for a Crush


It was Friday. That was the day Rachel had said the family normally ate the traditional 'Scrapple', as long as they had enough leftovers. Jacob hoped they had this week. 

He put the ladder under his arm and glanced discreetly towards the house. Old Yentl’s grey, bulky back was obstructing the view. He walked out resolutely pulling his hat over his brow, praying Rachel would be looking and that she would realize he was on his way to the barn.

Rachel saw him indeed, having been waiting hours for this moment, and her heart missed a bit. She dropped her spoon and leaned under the table just long enough to hide her fiery cheeks while giving a quick pull to the lace of one of her boots to unfasten it. She hated doing it with them on. It felt so unromantic! Then she continued eating very slowly, holding her breath, waiting for the inevitable discovery of the missing dish, while little by little pursuing her painstaking job with the laces in the subtlest possible way pretending to scratch her leg.

She waited nervous and breathless. “Where is the Scrapple?” Deborah asked at last, her customary scrappy voice, sounding melodious in Rachel’s expectant ears.

“Cooling in the Barn. Shall I bring it?” Offered Rachel, heart thumping madly, hoping that Ruth wouldn’t jump in as usual. She waited for old Jonas’ reaction with lowered gaze, hardly breathing.  He just nodded distractedly.

She stood up and walked out of the room very carefully lest she might tread on her laces and ruin the entire operation.

The journey from the kitchen to the outside door was a half limping, half tumbling battle of tangled clothes, buttons and laces in the midst of pants, gasps and smothered swear words. She finally left the house, boots dangling triumphantly from one hand and enough buttons of her blouse still fastened, to offer the family, sitting at the table, a modest view through the window.

Once out of sight, Rachel ran as if her life depended on it. There was not a moment to lose.

She was nearly there. Gasping with effort she pushed the barn door with all her might.


All Jacob could remember when he finally came round, was the goddess-like vision sketched against the verdant fields, framed by the slits of the old barn door, floating in the midst of a cloud of petticoats, round succulent breasts bouncing in the air- promise of a hearty meal, hair of gold loose in the wind, and what felt like a bull storming in and crushing him as he stretched out his hand to open the barn’s door.

She had always been impulsive.



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