Dying Embers

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: Decaying, Ember, Fragrant



My father-in-law is one the sweetest men I know. He and my father are cut from the same cloth. It is heartbreaking to watch a vibrant man submit to dementia.

Update:

Richard Edward Massabki died on December 13, 2017, at home, surrounded by his family.

I will miss you, Richard. À la prochain.

* * *

Dying Embers

He is fluent in three languages: French, Arabic, English. His time with the military exposed him to many nationalities and he can spew a key sentence from a dozen other countries. Phrases like finito la musica, passato la fiesta and haben Sie eine Schreibmaschine.

Granted, these are not expressions that will save his or your life, but if you’re with him in Italy, Richard can cheer last call and he can get you a typewriter in Germany.

He is an engineer—was an engineer before AutoCAD, when everything was drawn and written by hand. That precise writing that you see at the bottom of schematic drawings? Back in his day, that was meticulously written by hand, not by computer.

And that’s how Richard writes. Neat. Precise. Exact.

And that describes Richard. Neat. Precise. Exact.

It is how he conducts and presents himself. Pressed pants. Pressed shirt. Polished shoes.

Richard embraced the long-forgotten skill of conversation. My father also has this skill. It is a talent lost on the last few generations. It is easy to forget how to converse when you communicate with your thumbs, punch in abbreviated words without making eye contact.

Richard came come home from the auto shop one day—he’d had the oil changed or his tires rotated—and he told us about the young mechanic that serviced his car. He knew the man’s name, his wife’s name, the names of his three children and their ages—the youngest was having a birthday party next week—and he knew the man’s parents were from Poland, that they had emigrated in 1963.

Richard should have had a talk show. He would have had better ratings than Carson and Oprah combined.

I met Richard twenty-four years ago. He wasn’t home when we arrived at his house—he was out on his bicycle, riding home from a woodshop class he was taking. He was 70 years old.

When he vacationed with his wife—a woman who speaks English and French fluently; a teacher by trade—they took road trips into the States, attended Elder Hostels where the focus was learning. They took up bird-watching, studied the Civil War and learned how to play the kazoo.

He would entertain us with funny and heartbreaking stories about his life in Egypt, his hardships as a new Canadian. He told the romantic (and amusing) tale of how he met his wife at a church picnic, how she charmed him—a man from a foreign country with a thick accent and a meager sandwich wrapped in newspaper.

His eyes were mischievous, his smile quick and genuine. He flirted with every woman he met, told me each time I saw him that I was beautiful.

Now, at ninety-four, Richard’s gaze is tired and vacant. He no longer recognizes me, though he understands that I am a friendly person. Of course, he still tells me I’m pretty. He is, after all, an incorrigible flirt.

He holds out a trembling hand when I visit, reverts back to his native Parisian French when he greets me. Quelle belle fille, he says. He grins at me (ever the flirt), his smile now lopsided after a mild stroke.

“How are you, Richard?”

“I am well,” he replies, his English precise and formal. I know he lies. He is not well.

His brilliant mind is decaying at an alarming rate. Conversation—once fragrant with sweet endearments—is now riddled with anger, punctuated with profanity. This is not the Richard I know. This is not the Richard I love.

I watched him spiral into the void, unable to extinguish the fire that burned away the man I once knew. All that is left is a dying ember that cannot spark.

But once in a while it glows, and his eyes focus on me. I know in that moment he recognizes me. He smiles—the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and lifts my heart—and he sees me. Knows me.

I hold onto those moments.

Welcome Wagon

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: Tangy, Unhinged, Vapid

* * *

Welcome Wagon

An impressive pile of discarded outfits were strewn across her bed. The simple act of selecting attire shouldn’t be this difficult, she mused, when she was merely going out for dinner. Because it wasn’t a date.

No, it wasn’t.

Anna selected a pair of earrings, hooked them on her lobes. Tilting her head from side to side, she analyzed the effect in the mirror, removed the earrings, replaced them with another pair.

Dammit. She was making an issue. This was becoming a date.

No. It wasn’t. It was just dinner. A friendly gesture because she was the new neighbor. It wasn’t a date.

Who was she kidding? Of course it was.

She walked through the living room to the kitchen, poured two fingers of courage, downed it in one gulp. She didn’t want to like him, but Jay Watson had charmed her.

He had helped her carry boxes when she had moved into the unit across the hall, had rewired and hung her new chandelier in the dining room. He had even boosted her car when she had left her lights on—without, she noted, the vapid lecture that her ex always seemed to give her whenever she did something that displeased him. And, yeah, that happened a lot.

The Idiot—as her mother called him—had been, well, an idiot. And just a little unhinged. Which was why she had walked out six months ago. She was relieved that he didn’t try to follow or find her. Which was fine by her. She spent some time rediscovering who she was and who she wanted to be. Found that she liked being alone, which was quite different from being lonely. She wasn’t tethered to anyone.

But now she was going out on a—she was going out for dinner. With a friend. He was just a friend.

Her head jerked up at the quiet knock. She wiped her damp palms on the simple cotton dress she’d finally selected. Maybe she should change.

Jesus! Just breath for Christ’s sake! He’s taking you out to dinner. Probably because he feels sorry for you.

But, oh god, she hoped it was because he liked her because she really liked him.

Anna set the glass in the sink, walked over to the door, flipped the lock.

Jay stood in the doorway, his grin wide and fierce. He clutched a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

“You look great,” he said.

She admitted she was out of practice, but Anna recognized attraction when she saw it. His gaze traveled down, hovered at the dip in her dress, paused for several moments at her bare legs. When his eyes came back to meet hers, they no longer smiled. There was no question in those dark orbs, only demand.

Desire, sharp and tangy, rushed through her.

Anna wondered why she’d bothered changing her clothes so many times. She was just going to take them off.

Motorcycle Maintenance

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: jockey, kindred, lopsided

* * *

Motorcycle Maintenance

It had been a pretty good week, in Amanda’s opinion. She landed the Miller account and collected on receivables that she’d been chasing for six months. Both brought in over six figures. She’d have a quick drink to celebrate, then head home.

She crossed at the light in long strides, despite the narrow pencil skirt and three-inch heels she wore. She’d always thought that stepping into The Master’s was like walking onto a movie set. Walls were trimmed with warm wood. Sofas were covered in dark fabric. Music was quiet and comforting. The place just begged you to sit and enjoy a drink.

As she edged onto the last empty high top, Frank bustled over. “Do you want a table, Amanda?”

She shook her head, set her clutch on the bar. “I came to have a drink.”

Frank—the owner and occasional bartender—nodded. “Rough day?”

“No, actually, a good day. This is a celebration drink. Not a crying drink.”

He beamed a smile at her. “The usual?”

“Thanks, Frank.”

The man next to her leaned over. “I’ve always wanted to go to a bar and order ‘the usual’.”

He was about her age, Amanda judged, wore dark trousers and a linen shirt in robin’s egg blue. The cuffs were rolled a few times, revealing what she judged was a tattooed sleeve on his left arm. His eyes were trusting and danced with laughter. She decided he was harmless.

“In my case, it either means I’m predictable or I drink too much.” She shrugged. “Probably both.”

“That depends. What’s ‘the usual’?” He turned to face her, his body language telling her he not only asked the question, but wanted to know the answer. Okay, she’d play along. After all, he was cute and she was in a dry spell right now.

“Dry Martini. Bombay Sapphire. Neat. Three olives.”

“A kindred spirit.” He nodded his approval. “Stirred, I presume.”

Amanda smiled. The man knew martinis. “Of course. Bond doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Tattoo Boy snorted. “Right. Vodka. As if.” He lifted his glass in toast when Frank delivered her drink. “To a good day.”

She lifted hers in response. “Cheers.”

She jutted her chin at his tumbler. “Scotch?”

He nodded. “Laphroaig.”

“Nice.”

He offered his hand. “I’m Sam.”

“Amanda.” She took his hand, pleased with his firm shake. Setting down her glass, she turned his palm. “Calluses.”

His eyes seemed to lose their luster then and he pulled his hand back. “I’m not a desk jockey.”

Instantly contrite, she apologized. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that, well, you’re wearing that gorgeous shirt and with the ink.” She waved her hand and up and down. “It all doesn’t fit together.” She let her shoulders slump. “What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic.” Sam all but barked out the reply, as if he dared her to ridicule him.

“Automotive or industrial?” She sipped her drink, could see her response surprised him. “My brother’s a mechanic,” she explained.

That seemed to relax him. “Automotive. And motorcycles for clients that have them.”

“Oh yeah? I’ve been taking my bike to Murphey’s for service, but it’s a little far. Where’s your shop?”

“You ride?” She could see he was stunned by this revelation, but he quickly recovered and smiled. His grin was crooked and showed a small dimple in his right cheek. He was rapidly moving from Cute to Hot.

She smiled. “I have a Triumph America.”

“Nice.” Sam narrowed a look at her. “Wait. You named it, didn’t you?”

She laughed. “Gertrude. It sounds British.” She smiled into her drink, watched him shake his head. “You didn’t answer my question.” She pulled an olive off the skewer, popped it in her mouth.

“What? Oh. Right. My shop’s in Malvern, off Windsor Road.”

He signaled Frank, waved a hand between them, lifted two fingers. “You’ll join me for another.” It wasn’t a question and she found she liked his authority. “What do you need done?”

She gave him a blank stare as her mind raced. Oh, she could think of a lot of things she needed done.

“With your bike,” he clarified.

Oh. Right. “Just regular maintenance. Get it ready to put away for winter. Fuel Stabilizer. Oil change.”

He smiled at her use of the term. “I’ll give you my number. Call me and we’ll set a time for you to come in for an oil change.”

Was he flirting?

“If you want, we can enjoy a ride first. Then I’ll look after,” he sipped his scotch, “...changing your oil.”

Oh, yeah. He was flirting.

She arched one eyebrow. “We’re still talking about motorcycles, right?”

He shrugged, gave her his lopsided grin. “Sure.”

Tall Tales

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Todays words: dappled, elaborate, filthy

* * *

Tall Tales

Most days she could stand in the backyard and let the sun wash over her, burn away the shame. Once, she could throw back her head, spread her arms to the sky and ask for forgiveness. Even receive it.

No more. Filthy girl.

She hid beneath the large oak, rubbed at the dark finger marks that peppered her arms and legs. The aching had not yet started, but she knew it would come.

She deserved it. Filthy girl.

She could hear Mama calling for her, promising it was safe. Olly, olly oxen free! She should run, dance toward the soft voice, touch home and be safe. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Keep quiet. Filthy girl.

She would stay curled in the dapple shade of the oak tree and devise an elaborate story. A tale that would explain everything. One that she would tell for years. One that everyone would believe.

Even herself.

Prime Real Estate

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

The words: minor, nebulous, oily

* * *

Prime Real Estate

The living room was large, boasted floor-to-ceiling windows which offered an impressive view of the water from the penthouse suite.

Rick Emerson imagined his furniture in the space: Sofa against that wall, a couple of club chairs and a big-ass television over there.

The smell wasn’t that bad—nebulous, at best—once you got used to it. Despite the lingering odor, the charm was evident. Crown moulding enhanced the jewel-tone paint of the walls. Of course, there were a few marks in that one section, but he was sure he could wash those out. He didn’t have time to repaint. Besides, he liked the color. The rich hue added elegance to the space.

Hardwood floors, still oily from recent treatment, glistened throughout the three-bedroom unit. He crossed over to the window to take in the view. From this height, the marina was nothing more than a tub filled with toy boats bobbing in bath water. He wondered if a slip was included.

He was pretty sure no one would be interested in the space. Of course, filling out the paperwork for this unit would be a fucking nightmare.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket.

“Emerson.”

As the voice on the other end peppered him with questions, Rick turned away from the window.

“That’s right, three bedrooms,” he confirmed. “Yes, it is a great location. No, units in this building rarely come on the market. It’s empty, ready to move in. Yes, I would love to show it to you. There’s this one thing I should mention…”

When Rick pressed end and pocketed his phone, he smiled at the young woman who lay sprawled in the center of the floor of the living room with the million-dollar view.

As he dialed nine-one-one, he decided the paperwork was a minor burden for prime real estate.

About Her

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's three words: unselfish, winding, amoral

* * *

About Her

If you interview every woman he’s slept with—and there are a lot—each one would say the same thing: “He’s an unselfish lover.”

This declaration is often punctuated with a blush and a knowing smile. It is always followed with a sigh. And the sigh is always wistful.

Everette Beale provides a much needed service to neglected women. Neglected married women, to be specific. He has countless letters from former lovers (he doesn’t call them clients) thanking him for saving their marriage; for saving them.

He studies each woman’s interests—learns about her family and friends, her hobbies—so that he can have a meaningful conversation with her. He courts her: takes her out to dinner, a movie, even the opera, if that’s what she likes. He snuggles with her on his sofa and strokes her hair while they discuss a wide variety of subjects.

Or he simply sits with her in complete silence.

Some would think this is amoral. After all, these women are married. But Everette doesn’t look at it that way. He thinks of himself as a modern-day hero, a champion of relationships, if you will. Without the cape, of course. Unless she’s into that. In which case, he’s all in.

Everette’s lovers hire him because they are neglected by their partners. This desertion is not as simple as a spouse who works too many hours and has no time for his wife. It’s about contact and communication.

“He doesn’t talk to me anymore,” is the most common complaint.

So Everette listens. And eventually, the conversation shifts from talking to contact. How she longs to be touched again, misses how he used to look at her; when a mere glance across a room at a crowded party would make her wet.

As she confides her desires, gives voice to her hidden cravings, Everette’s mouth takes a winding trek down the column of her neck and across her shoulder. Her head falls back as she gives in to the hedonistic need that has tortured her for months—years—and he takes with a ferocity that reminds her of how it used to be with her man.

The agreement is terminated when he fucks her. It’s not a secret; he’s quite up front about it.

He tells her it’s because she will want to reignite the passion she once had with her man; that the sex—the glorious, liberating sex—that they just shared will be a pivoting moment that will strengthen her marriage.

He tells her that she no longer needs him. And he sends her home, back to her husband. It's the same routine each time a contract is terminated.

When the agreement ends, and before the next one engages, Everette sits at home alone. He holds a tumbler of scotch in one hand while the other one strokes his cock.

And he thinks of her.

He always thinks of her.

Wing Man

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: absorbed, deeply, frantic

* * *

Wing Man

“Do you see that woman? Next to the newspaper stand?” Frank points with his chin across the street.

Gerald nods. Of course he sees her. Who wouldn’t? Legs that seem to stretch up to her throat, tits that beg to be cupped by his hands.

Absorbed in his fantasy, he imagines brushing his thumbs across hard nipples, her head dropping back on a moan. “You think she’s the one?”

He tilts his head, tries to picture her in something other than the yoga pants, snug tee and worn runners. She’d look good in a halter dress and heels.

Frank folds his arms across his chest. “She’s an accountant. Works at one of the top firms.”

Gerald does not question how his friend knows this. Frank is a god when it comes to picking out women. It’s why he asked him to be his Wing Man. After all, when you’re looking for your next mark, you don’t want to waste a lot of time. Get it done and done fast.

Gerald watches her trot in place as she waits for the light. It’s not just about looks—though she has it in spades—it’s about personality and a willingness to…shall we say…play along. And Frank is gifted when it comes to pinpointing this important trait.

Gerald watches his next conquest jog across the street, zigzagging through pedestrian traffic. She makes eye contact when she passes them. Her full lips curve up in greeting as she continues on her run.

Oh, yeah, he thinks, she’s the one.

“You think she’ll be into it?”

Frank snorts out a laugh. “Come on, man. How long have we been doing this?”

“Two years, five months, two days and…” Gerald glances at his watch. ”Eleven hours.”

“You are deeply disturbed, my friend.” Frank shakes his head at Gerald’s laugh. “You scare me sometimes.”

Gerald ignores the frantic pounding of his heart, slips his hand into his pocket, fingers the cold steel of the knife. His cock twitches as his thumb rides along the blade.

“Just imagine how frightened she will be.”

The Edge

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's three words: intimate, jagged, thirst

Thom G knows that I write erotica. I swear he picks these naughty words just for me.

* * *

The Edge

Lips—a breath away from hers—whisper intimate details that promise pure bliss. Each teasing stroke brings her closer to that jagged edge where she knows her thirst will be sated.

Family

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: annoyed, hushed, pain

* * *

Family

He had that annoyed look that said he had a bad day at work. He always had that look.

Momma fussed over him, made him a drink, cooked his favourite dinner and laughed when he told his stupid jokes. Me, I sat real quiet at the table and didn’t say nothing. I did my homework real fast and went to bed early.

That’s when they started yelling. It got louder and louder and I tried to pull the covers over my ears, but I could still hear them. Momma begged him to stop. She was crying and I wanted to help her but she told me so many times never to come out of my room if they were fighting. She said it was for my own good.

So I waited for a long time. And then it got all hushed.

I stood by my bedroom door and waited until I heard the front door slam. I ran down the hall to the living room and Momma was lying on the floor. Only this time, she didn’t move.

Now I’m living with a new family. And I have this pain in my stomach that won’t go away.

Discipline

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

The words: Docile, Inflict, Whimper

* * *

Discipline

The flat of his hand came down a little hard. Not too hard—just enough to inflict that delicious tingle between pleasure and pain. It made her wet.

Laura maintained her docile persona while his hand hovered over her ass. She thought the heat from his palm would ignite the delicate skin already tender from his discipline. She wanted to groan when he slapped her again.

Instead, she let her imagination veer to candle wax, and a stifled moan escaped.

Mistaking her whimper for a plea, he stopped. “You know the safe word.”

She arched her back, raised her hips. Tilting her head, she looked up at him. Her lips curved in what most would think of as a smile, but he knew it was a challenge.

“I forgot it,” she whispered.

Summer Breeze

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

This week's words: docile, inflict, whimper

This scene has been bouncing around my head for a while now. It won't fit in with Madison's Avenue (or its sequel), but maybe the next book.

* * *

Summer Breeze

It had been nine—no, ten—years since she had seen him. That glorious summer, when Fiona was at the cusp of womanhood, her heart filled with a yearning she didn’t yet recognize.

She had experienced her first kiss. Well, she considered it her first. She figured Tommy Woodrow’s sloppy open-mouthed spasms didn’t count.

Sam had held her face, looked deep into her eyes, until she felt her heart tip. When he lowered his lips to hers, she became weightless. He had tugged at her bottom lip, nipped hard enough to inflict the right amount of pain. She could still feel the tingle that spread through her.

He had pulled her against him, flattened her small breasts against his hard chest, crushed his mouth against hers. His tongue probed, teased. She remembered thinking that Tommy Woodrow didn’t kiss like this. And that her Catholic parents would be appalled to know their little girl wasn’t so docile.

Her body had responded instinctively. She had angled her head, snaked her arms up his back, bunched his shirt in her hands. She sighed when Sam whispered her name, groaned when his hand brushed her breast. Let out a pathetic whimper when he pinched a hungry nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

And she cried when he left the next day without saying goodbye.

Now he stood in the entrance to her studio—a converted two-car garage, re-wired to accommodate her tools. The secluded location meant the neighbours didn’t hear the clang of metal, the hiss of the welder, as she pieced together larger-than-life sculptures with salvaged scrap.

He leaned against the door jam, hands stuffed into worn jeans. A crisp white tee accented muscles now defined with age.

“You look good, Fi.” Sam’s deep, sleepy voice had need arrow straight to her belly and shoot down.

She could still feel his hands on her body, his mouth possessing hers. His warm breath against her ear as he whispered promises he never kept.

“So do you.”

Dammit. So do you.

Vile Bile

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: devious / frown / venomous

I have a horrible cold. It is consuming me. So, why not write about it.

* * *

Vile Bile

I should have paid attention to the warning, but I chose to ignore the light tickle at the back of my throat. Now, venomous bile has meandered down my throat and lodged itself in my lungs.

My cough is wet and thick; my chest threatens to implode with every bark.

There are forty-two razor blades lodged in my throat. I frown in silence each time I swallow; moaning, I discovered, makes it worse.

My only solace is that I have managed to share this devious virus with my husband.

I shall not die alone.

Crystal Ball

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Word prompts: amicable, frivolous, unrefined

* * *

Crystal Ball

Each house in the quiet subdivision was painted a drab brown, fronted by a postage stamp of manicured green. The few gardens that existed were planted with simple white flowers. No color existed on the street.

“Jesus,” Keith muttered. “It’s like driving through a Sepia photograph.”

He scanned the front of every home as he crawled through the neighborhood, kept his speed under twenty-five. She had said he’d recognize it, that it would stand out. Every fucking house looked the same. How the hell was he supposed to…

Then he saw it.

Bright red siding. Neon-yellow front door. Enormous sunflowers reaching for the afternoon sun.

He couldn’t stop the laugh. “She wasn’t kidding.”

He parked his simple, blue four-door sedan behind her car—a bright yellow eighty-four Volkswagon bug. The only spot of rust, he noted, as he walked to the front door, was at the bottom of the rear passenger-side fender.

Moonflower, Keith decided, was an appropriate name for her.

The self-proclaimed gypsy was the product of hippie parents who had insisted on raising their only child within the amicable confines of a farming compound. She had taught herself to cook—vegan, of course—learned to paint and had discovered she had the gift of Seeing. At least that’s what her website stated.

The door opened before Keith could knock.

Moonflower stood in the doorway, raven curls swirling past her hips, eyes so dark they only reflected hope. She wore a floor-length dress in periwinkle blue, a frivolous number of gold bangles on her left wrist and a serene smile that spoke of knowledge beyond this realm and a promise of unbridled sexuality.

Months of text messages and telephone flirting had bloomed to this. It was no longer a fantasy. Every unrefined thought whipped through Keith’s head and straight down to his cock. She reached out and took his hand, guided him into her home.

“I don’t think I’ll need my crystal ball today,” Moonflower said, backing him into her bedroom. “I already know how this will end.”

Fishing

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Wednesday's words: electric, passionate, savage

* * *

Fishing

His gaping maw snaps open and closed. My breath catches with every savage clamp. His fight to hold on is passionate, but useless, for I am unable to keep my catch.

With tender hands I dislodge the hook and apologize for the pain I have caused. Sad, electric eyes stare back. He does not understand why I am throwing him back. He wants to stay in the boat.

His long, narrow body undulates in the water. He turns to me, beckons.

“I can’t swim with you,” I tell him.

Playful now, he flicks his fin in the air, gives me a splash.

I reach over for my rod, drop my line in the water.

Okay. Maybe just once more.

Resolute

I know, I know. Where have I been? I've been busy. Too busy. And a little stressed out with it. But I hope I'm back. Thom G's site is my favourite writing prompt site, so it's only appropriate that I start off the New Year with Three Word Wednesday.

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: jovial, promise, resolute.

* * *

Resolute

Today is the first day of the new year.

I won’t lie and tell you I promise to write every day, or even every week.

The fact is, I lead a busy life. I have a frantic full-time job where I put in a lot of overtime. I look after my in-laws every Saturday. This leaves one day a week to myself—to write my novel, operate my small business, socialize with friends and family, and reestablish peace in my soul so that I can start the crazy ritual again on Monday.

It is not easy to maintain a jovial façade. In fact, I am a miserable failure at being happy.

But that ends today. Or, at least, I plan on trying to end it. My parents, gods love them, always told me they only wanted me to try my best. So that is what I will do.

Henceforth (I am a legal secretary), I will try my damnedest to write more often, take more time for myself, and make the time to finish my novel.

And I am most resolute in finding happiness.

Resolved

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's prompts are: gorgeous, jittery, outrageous

* * *

Resolved

It’s a new year and I have no reason to believe that anything will change from the last one. In fact, I expect it to be worse. Not because you will share it with me, but because I will let you.

There was a time you thought I was gorgeous, when a single touch from you made me jittery with need. Now, I sleep alone—as do you—and I comfort myself with outrageous fantasies of another man’s hands and mouth worshipping me.

I believe that we create our own destiny, and if I want to leave, I know I can. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. I would survive, I would move on.

The thing of it is, the first divorce almost killed me—or rather, my thoughts did. The despair I felt dragged me into a dark cave that took years to crawl from. My thoughts are not exactly warm and fuzzy these days, but I know one thing: it would piss you off more if I lived, than not.

And that’s what keeps me going.

To Whom it May Concern

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words are: combative, represent, sluggish

* * *

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Lover:

Dear Husband:

Dear Friend:

Dear Stranger:

Every question I ask, every suggestion I make, is met with a combative response from you. When did our marriage become so hostile?

I don’t question it’s my fault. It always is; I know this and I’m the first to admit it. Though I try to fix it, you won’t have anything to do with the solution. Your response is nothing more than a sluggish grunt at best; most often you ignore me.

I no longer laugh with you. I don’t share my day. I don’t ask about yours. Have you even noticed? The rare times I let down my guard and dare to share a morsel of my life, you either ignore me, or worse—so much worse—you feign interest.

So I withdraw. This letter represents my white flag. I surrender. You win. I am too tired to fight this war.

And if anyone asks, I will only give my name, rank and serial number.

Jane Doe. Broken Wife. Zero.