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They’re living on the metaphorical edge, Eurydice realises, as she watches him scale the apple tree, his weathered guitar carefully propped up by the roots of the trunk. She hadn’t signed up for this, but when she sees him painted across the sky like this, his raven curls stark against the bone-white clouds, Eurydice cannot help but return his goofy smile.
“Catch, Eurydice!” he yells, and an apple tumbles down between the branches and leaves, a frighteningly bright blur of colour; she’s about to call out when it lands right on the middle of her head with a muffled thunk . The apple rolls to a stationary stop on the ground just as Eurydice directs her gaze upwards, glaring daggers at the snickering boy hidden amongst the foliage.
“Asshole,” she grinds out, leaning over to pick up the fruit. Using her skirt as a rag, she rubs off the dirt clinging to the apple’s crimson red skin and takes a bite; the pale fruit is crisp against her teeth, the sweet juices exploding inside of her mouth. As she chews, she doesn’t take her glare off Orpheus’ eyes, the corners crinkled.
“Sor–ry,” Orpheus singsongs in response, shimmying down the trunk with the grace of an agile cat. “Didn’t think that it’d fall atop your head. I mean, I had my bets on a shoulder or something, but–”
“You knew that it’d fall on me,” Eurydice retorts, shooting him the dirtiest side-eye that she can muster with drops of apple juice running down her chin, “and you didn’t bother to warn me.” Wiping her mouth with her arm, she pointedly pretends to ignore him as he swaggers over to where she’s standing.
“But where’s the fun in givin’ you a warning?” he teases mischievously, before yelping out as Eurydice pounces onto him like a cat does the metaphorical mouse, half-heartedly punching him in the chest.
“Hey– hey !” he screeches, trying to wriggle away, but she switches tactics and starts tickling him instead, which leaves them both laughing on the summertime grass, faces gently warmed by sunshine.
A moment passes, before he pants out, “You win,” a humorous tremor racking his ethereal voice, the one that soars and dives and pirouettes all in one sentence. It’s Eurydice’s favourite sound in the world, despite how cocky and unbearable its owner can be sometimes.
Triumphant, Eurydice tosses her apple core at his face with a grin.
***
The radio before her crackles with uneven chunks of static as she fiddles with the knob and antenna, her tongue poking against the insides of her cheek. Remnants of afternoon sunlight filter through the window to her right, scouring the oakwood table in an eerie glow, one that seems to illuminate the glazing that’d been brushed over it years and years ago.
“Eurydice.”
She doesn’t bother turning around, remaining painfully concentrated on the hum of nothing until she unearths a song that she likes. Instead, she simply says, “You’re home early,” just as Orpheus ambles through the front door, setting his bag down by the entrance. “Brought anything back with you?”
“Apples,” he says, barely concealed strains of pride twisted throughout his voice as he hangs up his coat on the rusty nail he’d hammered into the wall the other day. “Apples so ripe that they were practically beggin’ to be picked.” He walks over to her and starts running his spindly fingers through her hair, bending down to bury his nose between her curls. He pauses, before asking, “What’re you listenin’ to, love?”
“Don’t know,” she replies lazily, still absentmindedly changing the channel. Abruptly short snippets of songs dance from the speakers, but none of them are able to pique her interest; they all sound the same, in her opinion. Slightly frustrated, Eurydice twists the knob again, turns to look at him and says, “Whatever comes on that we can dance to.”
“Music for dancin’,” Orpheus echoes: she can see the gears turning in his head as he filters through his mental jukebox, eyes skimming over the titles tucked away inside the machine. He’s got a lot of songs under his belt, her Orpheus. “I reckon I know a song or two that we can dance to.” He nods towards his guitar.
“You can’t play and dance at the same time,” Eurydice scoffs, stifling a giggle as Orpheus gives her scalp a scratch. “Not well, anyway.”
“I’ll show you,” he promises, pressing a kiss against her forehead; it’s all gentle and delicate. He strides over to his guitar and picks it up by the neck, spiderweb-like fingers already settling nicely against the frets as if it’s a second skin. Sometimes, she thinks that the guitar is actually a part of his lanky body, what with how easily the wood slots against his stomach. It’s like watching a key fit into a lock.
Eurydice loves it when he plays. Orpheus feels like someone completely different when there’s a guitar slung across his chest; all traces of his smug bravado dissipate into the air around him. Perhaps it’s because whenever he starts playing, she realises that all his chafing self-confidence is righteous, and it doesn’t feel so much like bravado anymore. He’s the best guitar player she’s ever met; not that she’s met a lot of guitar players, but Eurydice knows talent when she sees it. There’s something special about Orpheus that she can’t quite put her finger on, but it’s there.
He strums a chord. After a moment’s deliberation, she flicks the radio off, serenely pushing herself up from the table as the note rings through her ears. “Alright, then,” she says playfully, melting against Orpheus like an ice cube in summer. “Show me.”
***
Sometimes, Eurydice finds herself wishing that summer would never end. Don't get her wrong: she's all for the regularity of the seasons, but summer has become synonymous with everything good in the world.
To Eurydice, summer is a chipped plate covered with vegetables and corn, a bowl of stew laden with produce that’s been freshly hauled from the garden. It’s lying underneath the sky at night and swatting away the omnipresent mosquitoes while she listens to Orpheus hum a campfire song under his breath, calloused fingers plucking away diligently at the strings of his acoustic guitar.
But most importantly, summer is the season of love; after all, it’d given her the curly-headed boy next to her, hadn’t it? She rests her head against his chest. His red jacket is wrapped tightly around her shoulders as he guides her home, back to their humble cottage that sits just by the fast-flowing river. He’s taking her for a swim tomorrow, and she’s holding him to his promise.
She catches one last glimpse of the sky before she heads inside; the clouds, to her delight, have been cast in a luminescent shade of gold.