Anyway, here's three pieces of writing for you to read. All characters' personalities are factual, but the situations are entirely fictonal.
July 24, 2006
“No. I’m sorry; we can’t do this anymore. Not any more than the sun shines in May”
“But the sun does shine in May….”
“What are you getting at so I can finally leave. Or are you just keeping me here so you can look at me one last time?”
He just stared into my eyes. The kind of stare that reminds you what disappointment looks like. Like a fat kid denied a cookie.
“Well,” he breathed out, “I don’t know what to do now. You’re just this side of blasphemy and I can’t handle it.”
“All right, but I still think you’re taking this too seriously. You’re escalating the situation to extreme proportions.”
“Actually, I’m not. And don’t go using your fancy college words on me, business-girl, ‘cause I’ll just laugh at you. HA! HA-HA!”
Really, sometimes he can be so juvenile. I don’t know why I even talk to him, much less live with him. I may or may not have to find a place of my own.
“Are you gonna sit there and think all day? ‘Cause if you are, do it in another room where I can’t see you. You know how much I hate it when you think in front of me.”
Geez. Next time, I’ll hang his socks to dry. I hope birds carry them away to their nests.
July 24, 2006
I can’t bear to look into his eyes sometimes. I don’t know what I’m seeing in them; not entirely. There must be a reason for that dark curtain of lashes. A certain amount of pressure is needed and all I want to do is get inside those eyes and die. Die in the ecstasy that I’m sure is there. The pure emotion waiting to be seen. Oh, to be behind those lashes and see out of those eyes. To play with the thoughts occurring during the silence without. Just to know the depth of feeling.
Oftentimes, I can’t stop. The love and caring pouring out of the so-expressive eyes-of-his is so much more that I can comprehend right now. How can he be so sure? Is it his ages-old wisdom or my young foolishness blinding me to what is actually going on here? How does he know what he feels is right?
I’m an unfeeling, impartial, monster.
But, I’m his monster. And I love it.
October 2, 2006
“Is it really necessary?” I say to him as he walks out the door.
“Is what necessary? Is this about my pants gain?” He stops and turns to face me properly.
“What are you…never mind. It’s not about your pants. Is it necessary to walk out on me during an argument? Don’t you think you should stick around to see how it finishes?” I manage to spit out between throbbing pulses of rage.
“Why should I care how it ends I did nothing wrong and you twisted it around in your mind. How about I come back when all’s well upstairs, OK?” He fairly throws the words in my face with the force of his frustration.
I watch him turn around and close the door behind him, being sure to close it properly so the cats don’t get out. I sigh and my big tom comes running up to sit on my lap and rumble my sorrows away with his thunderous, vibrating purr. My big grey. All he wants is loving and he knows how to get it. There can’t be anything more satisfying than being a cat. Owning one comes close.
I bundle the cat into my arms and lay on the bed. He crawls up to lay on my chest and purr his kibble breath directly into my mouth. All the better for me to taste, I guess.
A knock at the door causes the cat to start, digging his back claws into my abdomen Lifting the cat off me, I ease up (those claws need to be trimmed, I note for later) and swing my feet to the floor once more. A quick glance through the window tells me it’s one of his friends. I’m not in the mood.
I stand still in the hallway, hoping he hasn’t spotted me through the same window.
“I heard the cat jump down from the bed, so I know you’re in there. Would you come out, please?” He sounds funny, like he’s fed up with something.
“What if I say I’m not home?” I yell at the door, thinking that will let him know I don’t feel like talking. No such luck, as the next thing out of his mouth is
“You are home. Now come out and quit acting like a brat.”
So, now he’s got his friends coming over to try and keep the peace? I think about the likelihood of that sort of event occurring (and the likelihood is not) and make my way to the door. I open it.
“Who sent you and why are you here?” I ask him in a decidedly accusing tone.
“What, a man can’t go to his best friend’s girlfriend’s place of his own accord?” How could he possibly say this with a straight face? Something’s up, and I’ll find out what.
My big grey tom seizes the moment and bounds out the door. No matter, he’s never out long and comes in when I call him.
“So, what did you come here for, if not to defend His Majesty’s honour?” This is the second time now I’ve asked him why he’s at my door. I’ll push him down the stairs if he doesn’t answer me.
Suddenly, he has his arms around me. His mouth finds mine. I reflexively wrap my arms around his neck to stop the fall that never started. My hands are in his hair, our bodies together. Too soon, he comes up for air.
“I just wanted to give you that. Uh, from him” he stammers out with downcast eyes. Does he really think I’ll believe him?
“Do you really think I’m going to believe that?” I’m adamant, somehow.
“No, and I hope you don’t. Didn’t seem like you were resisting much” Shoot, I thought he hadn’t noticed.
“Did you know he had left?”
“He drove past me a little way up the road. Fast, too. Must have been quite an argument.” He finally looks at my face. Those eyes are trouble.
I rewrap my arms around his neck and murmur nonsensical comfortings in his ear. He thoughtfully nibbles my neck in answer.