When Henry Came Home by Josephine Bhaer

better'n it sounds."
                  "So are we halfway through?"
                  She shrugged again. "Maybe, maybe not." She got up and wandered out among the stones, looking at them. "I got lotsa folks here. Grandpas, great-grandpas. Graveyard ain't got the power to scare, with so many nice folks here." She turned a little. "You got people here?"
                  Henry hung one hand up on the opposite shoulder. "Nah. My folks moved out here after they got married."
                  There came a deep rumble of thunder and Mary froze, looking up. A moment later she was in motion, weaving in and out of the headstones, her skirt gathered in her hands. A blade of lightning, far off, sliced through the sky. "Rain!" she cried, as little droplets landed on her brown skin and began to roll down. Henry laughed, catching her as she ducked under the tree. She threw her arms about him and looked up into his eyes, smiling, her face shiny and wet and adoring. "Am I so funny?" she asked, and kissed him before he could answer. After, she laid her head against his chest, looking out and down to where the town was. "I wonder if we should start back now before it floods or wait and see if it stops?"
                  "Let's set for a while." He braced one hand against the tree and slid down, slowly, to the ground. Mary dropped down beside him on the hard-packed dirt. They sat, quiet for a while, holding hands and watching the rain. Sometimes the wind blew it suddenly, and they got a little shower. It wasn't bitterly cold, though. "Mary—" said Henry, after a while.
                  "What?" She scooted closer.
                  "Just 'cause—just 'cause I don't laugh—that don't mean I ain't happy."
                  She put her head on his shoulder. "I know. Folks're all differn't."
                  He was silent again. Then, "Do you figure—we know each other well enough?" He paused. "To be married, I mean."
                  Mary shrugged. "Sure. Folks seem complicated, but they ain't so hard to figger. If we ain't aquainted enough, nobody who gets hitched is. I can't remember not knowin' you. I guess I know most everything about you right now. Most everything I need to, anyway."
                  "You—you do?"
                  Mary placed two fingers against her right temple and closed her eyes. "Absolutely. At this very minute, you are terribly hungry, and can't think of anything except havin' a scrambled egg sandwich." She opened her eyes and saw he was smiling.
                  "I think maybe you're readin' someone else's mind," he told her.
                  She got up and pulled him after. "Well, one of us is thinkin' that way, anyway, and now we're married we're s'posed to be one person, so I guess we oughta get back. Besides which, I am gettin' awful chilled."
                  "You want my jacket?"
                  "Nah. Walkin'll warm me."
                  "Sure? Maybe we oughta put it over our heads."
                  "It'd just be trouble." She tugged his arm. "Come on, before it pours!"
                  They stepped out from under the tree and started quickly down the hill, heads ducked down a little to protect their faces from the full force of the rain. "Looks like pouring to me," commented Henry.
                  Mary laughed. "You weren't here last spring!"
                  Henry's thoughts went back to the hospital for a moment. "No," he said. He slipped a little in the newly made mud, but Mary caught him by the arm, firm. He paled for a moment, but regained himself quickly. "Anyway," he said, when they were halfway there, "I've never had a scrambled egg sandwich."
                  "Never?" She seemed disbelieving.
                  "Well—it doesn't—sound very