Tacit filled a jug from the pump and drank long and deeply from it. He felt spent and burnt from the merciless sun but he had also never felt so empowered and alive, such utter contentment in his life. Beneath the relentless heat, the harvest had grown fine and strong, the finest Mila had ever known on the farm, or so she had said two nights before, whilst they lay naked in each other’s arms. A surge of joy struck him quite unexpectedly as he drank, and he smiled and shook his head, draining the remains of the jug in a final long draw.
“What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?” demanded Mila playfully, stepping into the kitchen. He lunged forward and took hold of her in his arms, lifting her off the ground as if she were a child, enveloped in his vast strong arms.
“What are you doing, you fool?” she laughed, giggling and batting at him with her hands.
He kissed her behind the ear and shook her gently.
“Careful!” she warned, eventually wriggling free of him and reaching for the safety of the kitchen side.
“What is it?” asked Tacit, wrapping himself around her and kissing her neck again. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” she replied, turning in his grasp to face him and kissing him gently. “Nothing’s wrong, Poldek.” She put her hands to his face and kissed him again. “I’m pregnant.”