Yes, I’m very aware that it’s no longer November, but, you know, I really, really wanted to participate in November Notes but that novel writing thing that will go nameless pretty much took up my life.
So, if you don’t mind, and the hosts don’t mind, I’d still like to play. This is for “The Girl from Ipanema.” Continue reading
She used to write of broken hearts, infidelity, festering hurts. These days she thinks only to write of her body’s boundless betrayals.
Cherry Picking Season
There was something primal in the meandering way he gazed at her. Like she was a bowl of cherries, and he could never have just one.
She remembers sitting at a desk, listening, only partially, to the professor’s lecture while her thoughts stole onto more important topics, although those, she doesn’t recall. Continue reading
It’s the not being alone, hearing even the whisper of a snore, the presence of someone who loves or loved you, the quickening of breathing, the feeling of warmth even without touching, the knowing, the sense of contact, because so much time you spend alone that you want that one person who once understood you to love you into reality.
Taking It All Too Hard
The problem with experiencing life too deeply is at some point you reach the “fill to here” line and it just takes one more wayward sensation to jiggle the lever that pitches you down the jagged slope into emotional darkness.
Writing Notes: November Challenge hosted by Sarah Doughty and A Reading Writer.
In the summer, cold sheets didn’t bother me but now the chill pervades and sliding between them reminds me of you (but then most things do) because I thought you’d be here to keep me warm, your arms enfolding me, your breath, lips, hot, ardent against my neck, like August’s humid heat embracing us. The constant traffic thunders like the ocean. In its voice our summer love songs throb, the soundtrack to the sepia-toned slideshow of us: almost lovers.