Don't Think, Just Write

A Man's Journey

Archive for the month “November, 2013”

One More…

“We shouldn’t.” She moved his hand from her breast.

“You’re right, we shouldn’t,” He stood, walked to the window of the dark room and looked out at the city skyline. “Do you want another drink?”

“I think I’ve had enough. That’s how I ended up here.” She straightened her pencil skirt, tucked in her white fitted shirt. She looked as good as she did when she went to work that morning.

“It was the drinks?” He kept looking out the window. He needed a drink.

“No, it wasn’t the drinks, but the drinks make my mind go places it shouldn’t.”

“Or should.”

“What?”

He turned and went to the nightstand where poured and inch of scotch into a tumbler, the tumbler without lipstick on the rim. “The drinks make your mind go to the place it wants to go. To me.”

“Come over here.” She spoke to his back.

“We shouldn’t.” He was back at the window, looking out from the 10th floor. He touched the scotch to his lips and felt the warmth through his body.

“You’re right, we shouldn’t. Are you leaving in the morning?” She touched up her eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah,” Another sip. More rain on the window. “You should stay with me.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll buy you dinner.”

“You don’t wanna do that.” She was facing him now. Her dark hair pulled back again. He hated it that way.

“Of course I do,” They’d shared very little time outside of hotel rooms. He walked to her and put his hands on her hips. The fabric of the skirt, pulled tight across her ass and hips, felt good. He looked into her eyes. “I’ve been reassigned.”

“What’s that mean?” Her eyes changed from desire to concern. He couldn’t tell if the concern was for his well being…or her’s.

“It means I’ll be spending my time in the West region. I have my house on the market. I’m considering a move to Phoenix,” His nose touched the side of hers and he kissed the corner of her mouth.

“So this is it?” She pulled her head back from him and looked him in the eye again.

“I wouldn’t say this is it, but it’ll be hard for me to get back,” He pecked her lips. “Maybe I can fly in on the weekends.”

“You won’t,” The words settled between them for a moment.  “And we’re both ok with that. This thing has never been like that.” It was the hard, unspoken truth. Hearing it from her surprised him. He always thought she was more invested in the relationship than he was. Maybe he was wrong. All they’d shared and still he had questions.

They moved to the bed and he sat on it. He put his arms around her waist.  Her body wasn’t small. It was ample, her hips full, breasts, the same. “Will you undress for me…one last time?”

She stepped back from him and removed her shirt, revealing the lace bra, her breasts spilling from the top. She reached up and and took the clip from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. He sat patiently on the bed, enjoying the scene before him.

He still had so many doubts, so many questions about her. But one thing he knew, she enjoyed his eyes on her, his attention. She always had, since that first smile, some years ago.

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My intent when I started this blog was to get feedback on what worked and didn’t work in the stories and use that feedback to improve. It’s a learning experience to write, share, then realize through criticism that the story doesn’t work for one reason or another.

That’s what I’ve asked for here. So please comment. Critique. Criticize. I need it.  

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He Left, He Had To (Very Short Fiction)

image

His reason for leaving defied logic but was actually quite simple, he loved her too much. She would leave him eventually, it was inevitable in his mind. When one is more in love than the other they are vunerable. They¬† risk being used, left, foresaken. He’d been on the other side, the side that didn’t care as much and he was more comfortable with that role. So on a sunny, summer day, the sky blue and cloudless, a perfect contrast to his emotions, he packed his clothes, wrote a note, and left. It was a form of self preservation, a risk, one he would regret daily, for all the days ahead.

Image, Edward Weston, Nude, 1936.

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