Posts Tagged ‘red writing hood’
Friday, February 17th, 2012
In case you wondered what I’ve been working on for the past four months, here’s a teeny excerpt. This is the last time I wrote about them in this space. Lindsey has just, for the first time, watched Ryan work out at a baseball facility, doing basebally stuff. The post is a response to the Red Writing Hood prompt for today, which was to write a piece inspired by this picture.
Ryan was, as always, hungry, so we decided to have a late lunch. He pulled into a diner with a neon sign that read “EATS” in the window.
We settled into a booth and Ryan ordered a double cheeseburger with extra bacon, a large order of onion rings and a Diet Coke.
“Will that Diet Coke cancel out the 10 thousand calories you’re about to eat?”
“Absolutely,” he smirked. “So I owe you one. I know that wasn’t a lot of fun for you.”
“It was very enlightening.”
“Yeah? How so?” He took a huge bite of his burger.
“Well, I was going to say you’re pretty good eye candy, but with all that stuff on your face, it’s kinda killed that.”
He wiped the ketchup and mustard from his cheeks and chin with his napkin and grinned. “I have a big appetite,” he said, leering at me.
“Nice. Can you not be a pig for two seconds? Anyway, I could tell how much you loved being out there. That was cool to watch, to see that side of you.”
I picked at my salad while Ryan devoured his lunch. I used to wonder where he put all of it, but not after seeing how hard he worked out. I reached over and selected an onion ring, which I drenched in ketchup and ranch before taking a bite.
We were quiet as we finished eating. I put my napkin on my plate and took a last sip of my water.
“I can’t believe you quit,” I said.
“Quit what?” He leaned back against the booth.
His eyes narrowed. “I got hurt.”
“Oh, I know. I know you got hurt. It’s just, I see how much you love it, how much a part of you it is. It must’ve been like cutting off an arm.”
“Something like that.”
“The thing is…the thing is, I get it now. How sad you were when we met, even though I didn’t realize it, because I was all wrapped up in my own stuff. So I wanted to apologize to you because I probably wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”
Ryan looked at me a moment, then threw some bills on the table. “Let’s go.”
Friday, October 14th, 2011
“Wow, that looks like it was from something pretty nasty,” I said.
“Torn ACL, torn meniscus, torn everything.”
“Yeouch. How’d you do that?”
“Baseball. My spikes got caught sliding into home.”
“No. I used to play in the minors.”
Ryan abruptly stood up.
“Listen, I think you should stay here tonight. On the couch. It pulls out. I promise I’ll lock myself in my room.”
He lifted the ice bag off my ankle and we both saw how purple and swollen it was. I needed to use the restroom and he helped me in, then back to the couch, which he’d made up. When he went into his room I took off my shirt and bra and slipped on the soft, faded Red Sox tee he’d brought, which came down mid-thigh. I shimmied my skinny jeans down and off my left leg, but my right ankle was so big I couldn’t get them over it. They were now inside out with my ankle stuck in them.
I considered pulling them back on but it seemed beyond me.
“Ryan?” I called. “Ryan!”
He opened his door and stood, framed, in nothing but jeans unfastened at the waist.
“Can you help me?” I raised my right leg so he could see the issue.
He walked over and knelt down, gently working on the jeans. I sucked in my breath from the pain as he pulled them over the ankle, freeing it. He leaned back on his heels, which is when I saw the ink on his chest, right above his heart. I impulsively reached out and traced the seams of the baseball tattoo.
“I guess baseball means a lot to you,” I said.
He grabbed my hand and held it against his warm skin. I felt his heartbeat quicken as he gazed at me.
Friday, October 7th, 2011
I reclined on the brown leather couch. Ryan put a fat beige chenille throw pillow under my foot and walked into the kitchen, flipping on more lights as he went. I heard the crunching of the ice dispenser as I looked around his living room.
I had never seen a TV that big. It took up half the space on the cream-colored wall, with just enough room for a built-in cabinet which I assumed held all sorts of electronic equipment. And probably an XBox or PS3. Or both.
Ryan came back in with a clear bag of ice. He patted the bag flat, then put his mouth to the opening and breathed in the air, which I found strangely intimate. He twisted the top and tied it in a knot. He then put a towel on my ankle before setting the bag gently upon it.
“You’re a professional.”
“Too much practice at it,” he said, pulling over a soft green arm chair to sit next to me.
“You date lots of klutzy women?”
He laughed. “Nah.” He pulled up the bottom of his jeans to just below the knee, where I could see the beginning of a shiny white scar.
This piece is a work of fiction, inspired by the prompt of writing about setting from Write on Edge. It is the continuation of last week’s piece, where Cam falls down the stairs.
Friday, September 30th, 2011
Ryan unlocked the glass door of an unremarkable grey building. We went through a tiny lobby area and up five flights of stairs, the clicking of my heels echoing in the stairwell as we climbed.
We got to the top and Ryan pushed open the door that led us into a long hallway. I stared at the maroon paisley pattern in the carpet as he opened the door to his apartment.
“Come on in,” he said, taking my hand.
I was afraid to look up. I stood, rooted to that carpet. I knew I couldn’t go through with it. What seemed exciting and hot at the bar, and then on the street when he kissed me, now simply terrified me.
“Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to do anything. I can get you a cab home. But I really have to use the restroom, and I don’t want to leave you standing out there by yourself, so could you come inside for a minute? I won’t even breathe in your direction.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “As long as you don’t breathe.”
He grinned back and stood aside as I walked in. The first thing I noticed, besides the gazillion-inch flatscreen on the wall, was a curved staircase with an ornate iron railing leading up to… nowhere.
Ryan walked past me, flipping on lights as he disappeared into a small hallway. I wandered over to the staircase and ran my hand along the cold metal. The steps were steep and almost triangular. I slipped off my heels and put a foot on the bottom. Then I took another step. And another, clutching the railing and wishing I hadn’t had that last beer. I took a few more steps before I could see what was at the top.
“Roof deck,” Ryan said from below me, startling the hell of me. I felt ridiculous for snooping, but something drew me to this staircase.
“Can we go out there?” I asked.
He started up the steps and when he reached around me, his chest pressed into my back and I tensed, the attraction I had for him was overwhelming. He pulled down a lever and popped up a fiberglass lid and I felt the night air cool my face. Ryan squeezed past me and stepped up onto the roof and extended his hand to help me up. I held onto it as I stood and looked around. We weren’t high enough to have a view of the city, but in one spot where you could see the lights by the river.
“It’s not much, but sometimes I come up here after work to relax,” he said.
I nodded. It was too dark to see anything and the traffic on the streets below us was muted. We stood there, holding hands, in the quiet.
“I guess I should go,” I said. Ryan squeezed my hand. I stepped back down the stairs, again holding tightly to the rail. I was four steps from the bottom when I turned and looked up at Ryan, who was shutting the lid. I stared at his ass and took another step – and missed. I tumbled down the rest of the way, a scream escaping from my throat as I landed at the bottom.
“Holy shit, are you okay?”
He ran down to me where I sat, my ankle twisted under me. I was completely mortified.
“I guess I’m falling for you,” I said.
Ryan snorted. “Yeah. That must be it.”
He helped me to my feet, which is when I realized I couldn’t put any weight on my right ankle. A sharp pain shot through it. He swept me up and carried me to the couch.
“I’ll get some ice. You’re not going anywhere for awhile, babe.”
I rested my head against a pillow and knew he was right.
This post is a work of fiction. It is based on a photo prompt of a winding staircase from Write On Edge It is the continuation of the tale of the widow and the bartender. You can read the last installment here.
Friday, September 23rd, 2011
SWF iso SM
Be a Pepper
You can reach the chip-and-dip on the high shelf without a step stool. You can keep up in a spin class or on a 5K run and you’re not worried about a little sweat. Or competition.
Sundays are obviously reserved for football. And home-made chili. Extra spicy.
You think gray eyes are sexy. As is good hygiene.
Books fall off your nightstand. Or maybe it’s your Kindle. Or the Times.
You don’t talk til after the movie, which, unless you’re watching it alone, cannot make me want to sleep with the lights on for the next two months.
You don’t gag when I dip my fries in ranch dressing.
You understand a heart with a crack in it must be handled gently. Also, with wine, preferably a lovely merlot, or even an ice-cold Rolling Rock. And salt-and-vinegar potato chips.
Separating work and play is no problem for you and you do both of them hard.
You smile at little kids but not in a creepy way. You might even want some one day.
You know about a barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain.
You’re not allergic to the phone if you’re going to be late. Which you never are. The words “sorry” and “forgive” are in your vocabulary. “Love,” too, and you’re not afraid to use it.
You can be still. You gaze at the stars.
You make me snort Dr. Pepper out of my nose.
And then you hand me a Kleenex.
This post is based on the prompt, “Write a personal ad for your character” from Write on Edge. I chose the widow I wrote about here.