A Similar Morning Routine

Breakfast nook painted[1]

As always, it started with a smile.

The sort of broad and surprised smile that created ever-so slight crease lines around her mouth and under her eyes. The sort of lines that alerted you gently to the fact that this was a woman who knew joy. Or at least knew what it was supposed to be.

And she smiled it demurely, for me. Sure, the world out there might have thought that her contentment came from, and/or was intended for them. I mean, the world out there always does. But I knew different. I knew that that smile, those lines, and the peace that I saw glowing within her eyes – in that moment – was intended solely for me alone.

I knew, because I was lucky enough to share a life with her. I knew, because this morning, as always, she followed a similar routine. A routine I liked to call “Bliss.”

As with most mornings, she started by first filling me with her desire, holding me both lovingly and gingerly, in her hands. She then brought my face close to hers, touching the center of my labret delicately with just the very tip of her tongue, before pressing her lip firmly against mine in a lovers embrace. Draining me of my love dry, she filled herself with my heat as I willingly emptied myself at the same time.

She stroked my lip greedily with her tongue again. Leaving me shivering, cold, and somehow still full though empty, as she turned my world upside down, pulling into her very soul, my last drop and trace of sweetness.

Caressing me warmly just once more, she uttered something to the effect of “boy, now that was exactly what I needed,” before placing me delicately into the sink, my handle just touching the side of the glass tumbler that had held her Captain Morgan & Coke captive the night previous.

Both tumbler and I stared belligerently at each other for a moment. Knowing in our hearts that as we’d each fulfilled our purpose, we’d then been summarily dismissed. Knowing that neither of us would ever do so well as him. He who was able to drink her as she drank him. He, who was able to inebriate her, at the same time that she was energizing him. And knowing this, both tumbler and I wished that for even just one moment we could swap places with him. Wishing that just for once, that broad and surprised smile would truly be ours alone – mine alone – for all moments, and for always.

•••

In The Mood For A Dance.

As m’dad used to always say, “Follow where the pirates they lead you.”

Well, I suppose that’s a bit of an exaggeration, as what he actually used to say was quite a bit more dismissive, of both pirates, and people in general. But for this week, and as I continue to take prompt advice from my favorite Word Pirate (this time leading me over to the kids at Write Tribe), I’m pretending that the words written above, did at one point come from his mouth. As to my own mouth, I’ll simply continue saying that I hope that you enjoy this bit of fictional fluff…

6743bc0c-f84c-4b75-b2aa-82bafb353f8e_zps485e2995How do you do that?

How do I do what, honey?

How do you dance like that?

I don’t know sugar,  I suppose I just do it.

Just “do it?”

Just do it. Easy breezy.

But, you’re so graceful. Your hips are so swirly – your twirls, almost majestic!

Awww, thank you sweetie!

And those heels! Why, they have to be at least six inches….

Four.

They have to be at least four inches tall. How do you pirouette so flawlessly?

I don’t know sugar. Honestly, I don’t.

C’mon dad, seriously – how do you do that?

I don’t know honey, I suppose I just do.

•••

Silent Conversations

Sorry kids, but a very busy week means that this week’s Inspiration Monday isn’t arriving until Friday – err – today.

As always, I hope you enjoy…

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The clean, crisply folded clothes sat behind him, pleading to be placed safely back away, deep within their horizontally sliding wood and formica hovels. Begging to be taken out of the broken and rather dreary piece of molded plastic, that at one point had been proud to call itself a laundry basket. But instead of doing so, he sat facing away and inattentive, sipping aggressively at his vodka-straight while he stared into his computer screen.

In front of the screen was a keyboard of no importance, but atop it was a slightly crumpled, possibly tear-stained sheet of scrap paper. Scrap paper that had the word “flight” noted excitedly upon it. Scrap paper that was intended as a reminder for a task that was never realized, never completed. The scrap paper that now mocked him knowingly, as he moved it nervously – unable to dispose of it altogether – from this side to that, across the keyboard which remained of no importance.

To the left of that very keyboard, his phone violently burped out a small blue light, alerting him as to incoming messages, silent conversations wishing to be held. Raising its electronic hand in this fashion meekly, the phone likewise hoped to garner his attention. But much like the laundry before it, it had no success, as he continued to stare – dead-eyed but not numbed – into his computer screen, with one finger aimlessly stroking the rim of the vodka’s tumbler.

The tumbler itself and the vodka had very little to say, as they were both feeling incredibly loved and important at the moment. Seeing that the ice cubes might cause an interruption to the affection being unceremoniously showered upon it, the vodka had already taken careful measures – through the use of its limited knowledge of chemistry – to ensure that both cubes were forever silenced by their watered-down oblivion. Their raucous clinking now abated, still, into the screen he stared, sucking a combination of air and 80 proof through clenched teeth.

A screen that, being unlike the rest, in that it was unable to speak, was feeling very uncomfortable at this moment. For as he stared at it, it in turn was forced to stare at him – forced to gaze deep into his booze-soaked eyes. Held captive as it observed the sadness that created the tears, that in turn slowly strolled down his cheek, into the forest of his absent-minded beard.

The screen realized of course that he wasn’t staring at it, per say, but this understanding did little to make the whole experience any more palatable. And on the occasions when he actually touched it drunkenly – caressing it really – longingly, the screen could almost imagine what it must feel like to shiver with desire. It did not of course, as it was only a speechless screen after all.

While touching the un-shivering screen, he softly wondered why. Why had he made her countenance his screen saver in the first? With his free hand he found himself again stroking the lip of the tumbler, in some hope of finding a nick or a gouge – just something – to make him bleed. Just enough as to remind him that he was alive, and in this space, not hers.

He missed her.

Dammit, he missed her.

And that wasn’t like him. It wasn’t what he said this life would be, moving forward. And yet, here he was – the cacophony of his everyday life literally screaming for attention – and he, being only able to sit and stare. Not blankly at a random and mute screen, but at every nuance of the personage represented there, eyes and hair aglow, coming to life in vibrant 1024 x 768 dpi.

A cat, the only solitary living being within the house besides he (and a growing family of mice that neither yet had figured out was sharing the same roof), silently nudged its head against his shin, hoping as well to begin a conversation of sorts that would involve many strokes to the forehead and maybe even a treat or two.

Not diverting his eyes, he rubbed his thumb forcefully against the cat’s head – right where favored, upon the bridge – in blind observance of the tradition. But otherwise the feline as well, found itself unsuccessful in engaging, and decided to stalk off to its favorite corner instead, watching him with disdain, as he slowly continued to caress the random piece of glass that happened to be housed within an equally random piece of plastic. Both of which worked together to contain a countenance – due to its blatant lack of scent – unrecognizable to the cat, but still somehow very real to the man who beheld it.

•••

Thirty-three Words…

Rationed to my life,

If that was all I’d left,

I wouldn’t need but four.

To profess, between yester ‘n today,

My feelings respecting you.

Breathing dear, my last

“I love you more.”

•••

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Hellbent on going out on a high (and ball-peen free) note, I used the crux of the Trifecta challenge – as shown with today’s post title – by using “Thirty-three words,” as my prompt for this week’s free, and final, Trifecta Writing Challenge.

Coming in relatively late to the game (and YES – admittedly still bellyaching over never having won a week =) ), I really did enjoy my time with the Trifecta community, and wish you all the very best.

A Fruitless Endeavor

I’m SO glad I finally “balled-up” enough to join in with this group, and including this intro, I believe I’m more than maxing the 500-word count allowable for this week’s Write On Edge challenge. 

Please click the link above to learn more about the prompt and the community, and as always, I hope you enjoy…

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Watching him zip up the last of the three bags he’d hastily thought to pack, she became further irritated as he tried to compress its contents – with one shaky knee held hard against the fabric lid – while fiddling with the steel slider which protested loudly as he tugged it along the plastic teeth that were its mate. Timing it to where the entire endeavor appeared to be at its most fruitless, she waited before asking snidely, “So that’s it? You’re leaving then?”

Wha? Oh. Yeah.

“Just like that?”

Yes.

“Just ‘poof,’ and you’re gone?”

For God’s sake, YES! Why?

“She’s not going to be waiting for you, you know.”

She will.

“She won’t.”

She might.

Emboldened by his moment of caution and pause, she leapt forward unmindful into the din of her verbal castration of him, stressing, “Listen. There is nothing waiting for you out there anyway. You know that, right?”

There’s nothing waiting for me here either.

“Oh yeah? What about your career?”

Not for nothing, but I’m fairly certain that they have those where I’m going as well…

“What about the house?”

It’s not in my name anymore – it’s not my house anymore. It’s… it’s not my home.

“And what about me? What about your poor mother?”

Well. I’m sure the ole girl will understand. I’m sure you’ll get it, why I need to do this… Maybe some day.

“Well don’t be so certain of that. And what about the children? What about your children?”

Having finally secured the zipper – now groaning under its newfound charge of keeping all the baggage safely contained within, he sat back for a moment and wiped his haggled brow before almost whispering, and almost to himself, “Yes, there is them. That’s true.”

What…?

“I said that yes, there is that to contend with.”

See? You can’t leave. You need them.

“I do. But don’t you see? I sleep alone every night, while they sleep in the same house as her latest fling. No, they’ve already been taken from me. A long time ago. And besides, they’re almost adults now themselves.”

You can’t leave. I won’t let you. They need you.

“You know what? I’ve always told them that we’d all someday get out of this dump. I just never thought that I’d be the first to make the break. They do need me, but they need me to continue to lead by example. I think I’m doing the right thing here.”

She’s not going to be waiting for you, you know.

“She might.”

She won’t.

Rising on steady legs, he casually pulled the over-stuffed, yet self-contained third bag from the floor, and slung it across his back. Ignoring the still-protesting zipper as he did so, his step matched his smile as he strode enlivened towards the front door and the gate that lay beyond it, while saying much more to himself then to anyone within earshot, “She will.”

•••