(no subject)

[mynewplace]

It's a quiet evening, and she isn't looking forward to spending it alone. His invitation is welcome, but there's a nagging discomfort that echoes inside her. She dresses, and spends thirty minutes behind the wheel, wondering how much time she will need to spend with this man. He's forty-seven, and single; she reminds herself that he could be a long term prospect.

He showers and shaves, kisses his wife's cheek and climbs into his car. Forty minutes fly by as nervous fingers drum the steering wheel to the wail of a steel guitar.

She smiles sweetly at the first sight of blue eyes beneath his ball cap. She immediately sees the pain in his face, and her resolve softens as she climbs into his car. Her heart aches as his voice starts to break, but the hint of grief passes while they plan the evening. She expresses surprise to see that he's married, and his voice deepens, cracks again as he speaks volumes with sparse words. He has his wife's permission to be there this evening. He wants to drink, but she will be driving back home. Should they get a room or go to a bar? Another wave of empathic pain sweeps her at his next words.

"Did I tell you I lost my dad? Yeah, just a month ago, I'd been caring for him for four years...."

She's suddenly decisive, and they get a room. She knows the best relief for this particular need. She also knows he'll want to talk, after sex empties his emotional reservoir, and she tries not to think of herself as a psychologist.

He's pliant and agile, rough and assertive. His skill makes her smile, even as she winces. Her mind tries to reconcile the age on the man's profile and the age of the man in the bed. He mentions his time in Viet Nam and confirms her suspicions, but there's no confrontation. It's pointless to force the truth from him, because she just doesn't care. She lies sated while he drapes an arm across her waist. His words are filled with pride in hard work, his grandchildren, not so much when he speaks of his children. Images of a dark head crowd her mind's eye, she can't shake him even here. It makes her realize she's incapable of providing the comfort this gray haired man needs. He whispers again that she could spend the night, but she slowly shakes her head. She has a million reasons, but voices none. Her silence becomes more pronounced, she can find nothing in her head worth speaking aloud. His breathing relaxes, deepens, and she glances at the clock. She forces her mind to quiet while she watches the hour come to an end.

He awakens when she leaves his arms, and she dresses in silence. She wraps soft warm arms around his chest as he kisses her goodbye and she whispers "thank you" into his neck.

She is barely five miles down the road before the tears start. Tears of shame that she couldn't be sweeter, that she couldn't hold him and soothe his aching heart a moment longer.

He sits naked on the bed, head in hand, long after she closes the door.

Comments

It is after midnight

[rag-dawg.livejournal.com]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!

Re: It is after midnight

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

heh

Thank you.

[sparkles25.livejournal.com]

its almost midnight here so...

HAPPY BIRTDAY!
i hope you bday goes well and you have a happy day.

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

Thanks hon.

[sparkles25.livejournal.com]

You are welcome XD

[retro-rider55.livejournal.com]

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

Thank you Stewart.

[purple-leatherc.livejournal.com]

That was a beautifully written poignant narrative, Anita. *HUGS*

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

Thanks Tim.

[covertamerican.livejournal.com]

To my mostest favourite lady on LJ - Happy Birthday you beautiful, wonderful, talented, witty, intelligent, and awesome woman! ((hugs))

And many, many, many more. :)

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

Thanks honey.

Would you do me a favor? Refresh this page, and re-read this. I've changed it in some slight ways, but I'd appreciate an opinion.

Thanks.

[covertamerican.livejournal.com]

Have done. Sorry I didn't see your request sooner.

Geez, you could write a very good book hon. :)

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I appreciate it, and there was no rush. I've tweaked it all morning. I don't know about a book, but the thought does cross my mind once in a while, of a memoir of sorts. Pulled primarily from this journal.

[ain-true-love.livejournal.com]

For Howard.

[tat2edsdgirl.livejournal.com]

That was beautifully written. I still think you should work on getting published... short stories, a book, it doesn't matter... just something... something we can go out and buy. =)

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

I'd love to. But I still have no idea what to do. I don't know of any publication that would find my work appropriate for their readers. And I don't think I have enough writing for a book.

I compiled the other day the majority of the entries about Brent. There are some that I'd probably never release for wide readership, but I think they would make a cool little book. I have a memories section called "The Book" and I add stuff to that section when I think it's got potential for publication. I just have no clue where to start.

[tat2edsdgirl.livejournal.com]

I know money is an issue right now, but maybe (when you can), you should look for an agent of some kind. You have a talent for writing, and there has got to be something out there that would publish your stuff. I'll have to go looking through that section and see what you've got. =)

Do you think you don't have enough for a novel, or enough to publish a collection of short stories? If it's novel-length you're worried about, don't. Do a collection of short stories... I've seen small collections... like 100-200 pages. Most novels are 300+ pages anyway.

[sapphirescarlet.livejournal.com]

I'm really not interested at all in publishing a novel. I don't have any stories, really. They're all essay-type stuff. Unless you consider things like that business with the older guy Saturday night a story. I've often said I'd like to see something done with my journal, in a "Griffin and Sabine" type format.