Harvest Moon Desire
The harvest festival was the heartbeat of our village, a day of golden light, laughter, and the heavy scent of corn chicha. Everyone had gathered at the furthest plot, but the celebration always culminated at our family’s farm, the largest in the valley. By four in the afternoon, the potato harvest was complete, leaving the air thick with dust and the electric energy of youth.
I spent the afternoon helping my cousins serve plates of hearty stew to the workers. When I approached Julian, the man who would eventually become my husband, his eyes held a mischievous glint. He whispered that he hated the chicha and asked me to accompany him back to his house to fetch some beers. I agreed, my heart fluttering with a nervous anticipation I couldn’t quite name.
As we walked between the deep furrows of the fields, away from the prying eyes of the community, Julian reached out and playfully caught my hand. The touch was electric, a sudden spark that ignited a fire beneath my skin. He pulled me closer, his breath warm against my ear, whispering promises of a passion that had been simmering between us for seasons.
We reached the shadow of the old oak tree, and the world outside the canopy vanished. In the golden haze of the afternoon, he pressed me against the rough bark, his kisses tasting of salt and longing. It was a desperate, hungry encounter, a release of tension that left us both breathless and trembling under the watchful eye of the harvest moon.