Posts Tagged ‘widow’
Goosebumps
Friday, September 2nd, 2011
A single orange-brown leaf broke free and spun to the sidewalk in front of my feet, reminding me that summer was not forever and change was coming and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing at all. Time continued to move on and, so, took me further away from him.
Which was the way it was supposed to be, I guessed. Justin died almost two years ago and I needed to move forward. Which is what I was doing. Although stumbling would be more appropriate.
It was close to 90 degrees, even though the sun would set in an hour. I should’ve taken a cab but I’d wanted to walk and make sure my head was clear. But now that head was covered with sweat. My shirt clung to me and the hair I’d carefully curled now hung limply to my shoulders.
Ryan was leaning back against the metal railing in front of the restaurant. He straightened and smiled when he saw me and my stomach flip-flopped.
“Hi,” he said. He reached out and hugged me and for a moment I forgot about my damp shirt and simply inhaled the scent of a man. A man who was not Justin.
I stepped awkwardly out of his embrace.
“I’m so gross and sweaty, I apologize. I thought it’d cooled off so I walked but then I realized that it’s still really hot and I should’ve taken a cab…” my voice trailed off. I knew I was babbling. But I was nervous. When was the last date I went on?
“No worries,” Ryan said. “Let’s go in.”
He opened the door of the restaurant and the cold air inside immediately brought goosebumps to my skin. I rubbed my arms as we were seated in a wooden booth. Ryan ordered a bottle of Chianti and, when our glasses were poured, he lifted his toward me.
“To beginnings,” he said.
“To beginnings,” I echoed softly, taking a small sip. I carefully set my glass back on the dark wooden table. Three tea lights sat in a glass bowl in the middle and I watched them flicker. I didn’t know what to say. He’d given me his number that night I’d met him and, as he’d asked, I’d texted to tell him I got home okay. We exchanged more texts over the following week, and then he’d called and asked me to dinner.
I felt Ryan looking at me and I met those light blue eyes that made my breath catch.
“Hey,” he said, reaching across the table and putting his hand on mine. I looked down, noticing the small dark hairs below his knuckles. I slowly lifted my gaze to him again. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I mean, I’m just not sure I’m ready for this. Whatever this is. There’s been no one since Justin. And you make me feel… I just don’t know what I’m capable of giving, you know? ” I felt my face get hot. Clearly I had no clue what to say on a first date. We barely knew each other. It was all a bit heavy and I wondered if he was going to excuse himself to go to the restroom and duck out the back exit.
Ryan squeezed my hands before letting them go and picked up his glass to take another swallow. The candlelight made his skin glow and I thought about reaching out and touching the dimple on the side of his cheek.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what this is either,” he said. “But I’m willing to find out if you are.”
This is a work of fiction inspired by the prompt “Change of Seasons” from Write on Edge. It is the continuation of a story, You can read previous installments Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five and Part Six.
Tags: a nice chianti, cam, chicago, fiction, first date, maybe she's finally ready to move on, red writing hood, ryan, widow, write on edge
Posted in Red Writing Hood | 39 Comments »
A lifeline
Friday, July 1st, 2011
This story is fiction and is a continuation of last week’s scene, where the bartender asks for Cam’s number and she says she’s married. The post is inspired by the prompt, “write about a forgotten letter of card your character finds” for The Red Dress Club.
“Oh. Sorry. You’re not wearing a ring,” he said, nodding toward my naked finger.
I’d taken off the simple solitaire and the platinum band on the year anniversary of Justin’s death. I’d returned the diamond to the same blue box in which I first saw it more than four years before, when Justin got down on one knee practically in the middle of Addison Street as the fans poured out of Wrigley Field.
It was loud and crazy and when a few people passing by noticed what was going on we ended up surrounded by a throng of happy drunks, cheering our engagement as Justin kissed the breath out of me.
It was perfect.
But after he’d been gone a year I started realizing he really wasn’t coming back. Ever. So I gently placed the solitaire and the band back in the velvet holder, closed the box and tucked it away in the nightstand drawer and had actually made it a few days at a time without taking it back out and rubbing the cold diamond against my cheek.
And now I gazed at my empty finger, on which I still often tried twisting the rings that were no longer there.
“Yeah. See, my husband…he died.”
I looked back up into bright blue eyes and felt my own fill with tears.
“Jesus, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” he said, as he watched the tears spill down my cheeks. “You wanna get out of here?”
I nodded. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out into the street.
“Shit. I have to go back to work. But I hate to leave you like this. Wait.”
He dug into his jeans and came up with a folded piece of paper with fuzzy edges like it might have been through the wash.
“Got a pen?”
I handed him the one I always kept in my purse. He scribbled something on the paper and handed it to me.
“I left my phone back at the bar, but this is my name and number. Please call when you get home so I know you made it okay. Or text me if you don’t want to talk. Although, if you do want to talk, I’m a great listener. It’s in my line of work.”
He flashed a smile, then turned and grabbed the cab that magically appeared in front of the pizza place. He opened the door for me and I got in. He closed it firmly behind me and stood on the sidewalk, watching as we drove away.
I looked at the writing on the worn paper he’d given me.
Ryan Hennessey.
And his phone number.
I carefully unfolded the rest of the paper. There was writing on the other side, the loopy curves made it clear it was by a woman.
I need you to come back. I’ve never asked you for anything. Please, Ryan. It’s time.
Tags: bartenders are great listeners, fiction, kyle, red writing hood, the red dress club, widow
Posted in Red Writing Hood | 38 Comments »
Hot pizza
Friday, June 24th, 2011
I left the bar and the boy with the turquoise eyes and wobbled down the sidewalk in search of a cab.
I had not had more than an occasional glass of wine since Justin died. And so three beers on an empty stomach made me wonder what happened to my feet.
I stopped and looked down, half-expecting my havaianas to be a few inches off the concrete, or possibly completely gone. But there they were, the bling politely winking at me.
There were no taxis in sight but there was a pizza by-the-slice place at the corner and I floated down there, the spicy scent of tomato sauce and oregano hitting me before I even opened the door. The windows were steamy and the place was busy, but not like it would be after midnight when the bars stopped serving food. I ordered two slices of pepperoni and a Coke and found a high table where I plopped down my plate and shoved half the slice into my mouth – which is when I lost half the skin on the roof of it.
I guzzled down some Coke and then I burped, not quite getting my hand in front of my face to block it. Which is exactly when the Windex-eyed bartender suddenly appeared in front of me.
“Bless you!” he said, smiling widely.
I should’ve been mortified. But I instead toasted him with my second slice of pizza.
“Saw you wander down here when I stepped out to get some air on my break. I was hoping I could get your number. I should’ve asked before you left.”
He looked expectantly at me.
“Sorry, ” I said after another swallow of Coke. “I’m married.”
This story is a work of fiction inspired by the prompt, “Write a 300-word flash fiction piece on the topic of life,” for The Red Dress Club. It is the continuation of the story of Cam: Part One, Part Two, Part Three and Part Four.
Tags: cam, fiction, hot mess, red writing hood, the red dress club, widow
Posted in Red Writing Hood | 46 Comments »
