Cold 


I stare at your sleeping form on the bed, your head hidden by the linens and the multitude of fluffy hotel pillows.

You cried out my name but no one heard.

The cold window ledge brought out the goose flesh on my naked skin. I shiver involuntarily. I could go get a blanket but that would mean getting closer to you.

I would rather die.

I focus on the scene beyond the window glass. The lights of the city glow below, creating an artificial twilight reflected in my ghostly shadow. I can see for miles from the twenty-second floor.

Syncopated skyscrapers.

Cold fingers and the clinking of ice cubes against the thick glass of the tumbler as my shaking hand bring me back to this room, this ledge.

You knew that sound, didn’t you? 

I take a sip of the drink. The taste is watered down from the melted ice but still cloying. You didn’t want anything that tasted like alcohol and always made fun of me for liking scotch and extra dry olive martinis.

So we had this pansy drink instead.

What was the point? 

There was not enough left to get drunk from. I put the glass down, letting the condensation pool in a damp circle around it, weeping.

We were over.

There was no yelling.

Still, we both knew.

We assaulted each other over the years so thoroughly that love was obscured by pain. You still held my hand when we would cross the street in daylight, still endevoring to protect me. It was endearing but we could neither of us bear the intimacy of darkness any longer.

Kiss me once more like you mean it. For old time’s sake…

Your lips didn’t even move.

So the out of practice fumbling and grunting and an early abort left us both even more frustrated and more distant. You rolled over without a word and fell asleep.

Even after all of these years you can still make me feel like an unwanted whore.

Maybe that is what I am but come the light of day I will be so much more….

———-

I listen to patient stories all day. It is an honor and a privilege to get to hear those stories just by itself, but it is also great for creative writing. I take little bits of people’s stories, put them together, and mix them with mine. The things that I hear, the heart break that I am witness to… 

I am going to smatter in some more creative, fictional vignettes and see how it goes. Let me know what you think.

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122 thoughts on “Cold 

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