Howdy! Today we start a new story, "Two of Hearts." It's a woman's fiction story and different from anything else I've ever written. Sorry that the opening excerpt is so long. It was necessary to include all this to establish who Terry is. Caution: there is bad language and sexual references in this story. If that b bothers you, then stroll on by. The word prompt is "cold." Don't forget to hop on over and read all the other fabulous stories. You'll find them HERE.
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At six a.m., the creature breathing on Terry’s ear should
have been his wife, Clare, not their pug, Queenie, placing her cold nose against his temple. His wife, an early riser, always took the dog
on the early morning walk. But he’d put Clare on a plane to Los Angeles the day
before. Terry grumbled as he pulled on sweats, slipped on a wind breaker, and
harnessed the pooch.
“What
the fuck, Queenie? Why do you have to go out so God damn early, anyway?”
He
shuffled down the hall to the elevator, dog prancing alongside. His wife
occupied his thoughts. An acquaintance got her into some dumbass west coast script-writing
internship program. Exactly what would she’d be doing there? He had no clue. Riding
down to the lobby, Terry recalled his conversation over dinner with Clare.
“Aren’t
you a little old for an internship?” He’d asked, refilling their wine glasses.
“It’s
not for neophytes. Only for experienced writers.”
“Oh.” He
nodded.
“This is
a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to break into the movies.”
“Isn’t
that a bit cliched?”
“Very
funny.”
“Sorry.”
They’d polished
off the bottle, then Clare had led him to the bedroom and seduced him. He
chuckled to himself --not like it was difficult. After great sex, Terry couldn’t deny her
anything. She used lovemaking to get her way, but he didn’t care. He loved Clare
with all his heart.
“How
long is this deal?” He’d asked, lying next to her.
“Six
months. That’s all. It’ll pass quickly.”
“And
your freelancing?”
“Sarah
said I could take a leave of absence.”
“And
your job’ll be there when you get back?”
“That’s
what she said. We live on what you make anyway. My dippy shit little salary won’t be
missed.”
“It’s
not the money. I’ll miss you.”
“You can
come on weekends. Please, Terry? I may never get another chance.”
With the
pleasure from release still floating through his veins, he hadn’t been thinking
clearly. Sure, he’d fly out there at least once a month, catch up on their
lives and screw their brains out. If he made love to her eight times over three
days, that would average out, over a month, to twice a week –more than some
guys got. It was only for six months, right? Easy peasy, he’d thought.
Obviously he’d gone brain dead.
“You’ll
have Queenie,” Clare had said.
Hearing her
name, the animal had jumped up on the bed. After breathing in his face, she circled,
nudging her way between them, and plopped down, resting her chin on Clare’s
leg. He admitted Queenie had wrapped her little self around his heart, but she
was no substitute for his wife.
“Okay.
Six months. Only six months. Then you come home, right?”
“Right.
Thank you. I love you madly, truly, dearly,” she’d said and slid down his body,
arousing him once more.
Once his
mind worked again, he’d spent the next month looking for ways to back out of
the deal. But he’d never seen Clare happier. She sang in the morning, initiated
lovemaking every night, and created mouth-watering dinners. How could he
destroy her hopes?
Did he
believe she’d have a dazzling career as a scriptwriter? He doubted one course
would turn her into Steven Spielberg, but kept his misgivings to himself.
The
first time the alarm went off at six instead of seven, he regretted his
decision. Six months of getting up early, six months of walking the damn dog
before he’d had his second cup of coffee, and six months of no sex –what the
fuck had he been thinking?
That's it. Thanks for stopping by.
