The problem with falling in love with a writer is the constant self-doubt. Can I trust myself with my emotional thermometer or have I been seduced by a character in his new novel?
Is the man I seem to adore, the same man who belched after slopping up the gravy on his dinner plate? I seem to remember him taller. I absolutely know that Damien never passed gas. There was always a scent about him, an infusion of hard-earned sweat and fresh pine.
“Can you pass me the remote?”
Huh, I think. That’s an unfamiliar voice. The last time I saw him he was on a mountain ridge, silhouetted against the setting sun. I waved as he headed west, the mane of his white stallion fluttered in the evening breeze as I watched him disappear.
“Jesus, Mildred; are you deaf? Where’s the damn remote?”
It was worth it, I thought. One night with Damien and I’d never be the same. He dusted his fingers over my flesh, turning my skin into velvet.
“Get me a beer while you’re up.”
He never promised me a thing. He didn’t need to. His lips caressed my dreams and I surrendered. I would always be a part of that moment and he would live within me until eternity embraced my yesterdays, making every moment count, frozen in time.
“For God’s sake, Mildred; can you get your face out of that book and get me the damn beer.”
♦ After a thirty year career as a sales and marketing executive, Ingrid Thomson is a top-ranked author in a website writing community and a published short story author who is working on the final draft of her first novel.
♦ This author's generous contributions help make P&S possible.