The Boyfriend's Perspective

He’d stared at the phone for a good minute, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Hay there, my love." Maya. Always Maya. Even when she was half-asleep, fumbling for her phone before the sun had even bothered to paint the sky, she managed to charm him. He’d been about to type out a gruff "What do you mean, hay?" when the image of her, probably already wrestling with a bale of the stuff at the farm stall, popped into his head. He chuckled, picturing her slightly frazzled, a smudge of dust on her cheek. It was perfect. It was *them*.

He’d typed back, "I'm literally surrounded by it. Where are you?" A playful jab, a nod to the rural landscape they inhabited, a landscape that was about to become inextricably linked with their own peculiar brand of affection. Her reply, a photo of the towering stacks behind her stall, confirmed his guess. The bright morning sun glinted off the golden stalks, and Maya’s grin, even in a blurry selfie, was enough to make his heart do a little jig. That was the beginning of it, then. Their own private language, woven from stray strands of straw and the comforting scent of dry grass.

He remembered the first time he’d left a piece of straw on her windshield. It was a Tuesday, he thought. A particularly dreary Tuesday where the world seemed determined to drag him down. He’d driven past the farm stall on his way to town, seen her through the open door, her back to him as she arranged fruit. He’d wanted to give her a little boost, a silent reminder that she was on his mind, that she was his bright spot in any dull day. He’d pulled over, rummaged in the back of his bakkie, found a stray piece of straw that had somehow hitched a ride from the last load of feed, and carefully placed it on her wiper. He’d driven off, a ridiculous sense of satisfaction warming him. When he’d picked her up later that evening, she’d practically tackled him with a hug, her eyes sparkling. "You're so silly," she'd whispered, her voice husky with amusement, "but I love it."