The Lover

I thought of this little piece as I sweated in the final dog days of Alabama August.
An old friend from junior high commented that she “felt like she needed a cold shower” after reading this piece. That’s about the nicest compliment I’ve ever had on my writing.

Words Not On Paper

“Come away with me,” she whispers.

For a brief moment you believe she is sincere. You must believe it. Not because your reason tells you that it is true, but because you so want to believe it. You yearn for her to be true. Because she is what you dream of in the lonesome hours of each dark night as you lie in the heavy air of your bedroom, unsure if you are awake or asleep, afraid to exhale lest you miss the faintness of her whispered breath above the hum of the silence.

She is what you think of during the toils of the day. You look for any sign of her coming–test the air for a scent of her strange perfume. You are like a teenage girl, sitting by the phone on Friday night. Ring! Ring! Oh, please ring.

She has become your fixation. She is a drug…

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