Five Minute Friday: Together

Together AgainI thought it was what I wanted. To be together.

I wanted to be with someone. So badly. I guess I didn’t care who it was. And it wasn’t a bad relationship. It just wasn’t the right relationship. So it’s over.

And that’s not bad. In fact, it’s much better. So much better that I was tempted to stay.


So, I’m moving on, and moving out. And moving. Because there’s no point in being together if you’re not really together.

But guess what? I still want to be together. With someone…

I want to do what’s best. But it’s hard.


What’s Five Minute Friday?

A blog-prompt project dreamt up by LisaJo Baker, which you can read about here. The basic idea is that you spend five minutes of writing, generally unedited (I correct typos, WAY too OCD not to do that), on a prompt that she provides just after ten p.m. via a tweet, then spread the word, and link up. Interested? Join up. Enjoy a delightful assortment by clicking on the picture to the right, or here.


This time, with feeling…

Weeping Grave MarkerWalking along, I watch the breeze ruffle my long skirt around my ankles. It’s really hot out, but I needed to walk. Amazing how walking gives clarity, The simple action of placing one foot in front of the other quiets the mind. Or does it?

It’s been seven days since we last talked. Seven days fraught with enough emotional turbulence to make even the doughtiest counselor cringe away from entering the cockpit of my mind. Belligerent fury, sobbing anguish, exhausted relief. It’s been like a checklist for some sort of drama workshop.

“Read that line again, but this time, show me your exasperated humor.”

“Hmmm…how about disbelieving agony?”

“Your previously unimagined gratitude?”

I think I’ll just stick with sad.

I head back home to write.

An Unexpected Arrival

Ginevra LetterIt happens. The high starts to wear off when you leave the hotel. The chocolates on the pillows turn into wrappers in the dustbin, the rich meals become a decadent memory (and maybe an extra pound on the waistline, truth be told). If the weekend is especially delicious, the high lasts a little longer, but eventually, all good things come to an end. You come home and realize that indeed, after the ecstasy, there really is laundry. A lot of laundry. I soak the stockings, hang up the slips to dry, sew a loose button back on my skirt waistband, take a couple of things to the cleaners. I sort the darks, the lights. I think. A lot. About what we did. A little bit about what might have been different. Mostly about what will happen next.

I was just coming down from that high, just settling back into my daily routine, just getting back to some kind of normal; when it happened.

I was sitting on the sofa reading when I heard the mailman (mailwoman? who knew?) clatter the lid of my box, so I rose up and went to bring in the daily round of bills, sale flyers and junk mail. Thumbing through the stack to sort what I could immediately recycle, I notice a heavy cream-colored envelope. Hmmm… I wonder who’s getting married? Not recognizing the return address, I set everything else on the credenza, and turn it over to open the envelope. It’s not an invitation. It’s a letter. Nice… It’s linen finish laid paper. You don’t see that much for correspondence. A moment of dread fills me. It’s probably from some lawyer. But the envelope isn’t business sized, and the letter is folded in quarters. Like, well, like a letter. I slowly unfold the paper and read the following:


Weston Place
June 17, 20–


It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It was supposed to be totally about flirting and playing and seducing. I was supposed to be the seducer. I was supposed to be the one in charge of this affair. I was supposed to be Mr. Suave and Mr. Have It All Together and Mr. Sophisticated. I was the one who told you I would lead, take you to places you’ve never been, and ruin you for life. You had no idea what you were getting into. That’s what I knew. That’s what I thought.

And then the seducer got seduced. I found you willing to bare your very soul to me. Without revealing a single bit of flesh, you stripped yourself naked right in front of me. You revealed parts of you that you have never revealed to any of the men who have known you . And I was humbled and intoxicated at the same time. I found myself drawn into your essence long before I ever entered your body. Long before our lips ever met for the first time. Long before our fingertips ever touched.

I have no idea where this is going or how it’s going to play out. I only know that you have touched me in places that have lain dormant for many, many years. I only know that I have fallen for you, Ginevra, in a way I never dreamed possible. I only know that I am eagerly awaiting the next chapter of our story, the next scene of our play, the next page of our novel. I only know that right now, I cannot imagine anything more desirable than having those love-filled eyes of yours looking directly into mine, touching your hand, holding you in my arms, and kissing your lips.

I love you, Ginevra, and cannot wait until we are together again and together for the first time. For it will "Seem like the very first time," when our bodies entwine, our hearts unite, and our souls trade the very breath of life itself.



Oh, my… Oh… I sit down. Hard. Knees a little weak. Heart beating a little faster. I reread the letter. It’s real. It’s really real. The faintest, so faint as to be almost imaginary scent of cologne wafts up from the paper. It’s a real letter, and it’s from Steffen, and…and…now what? I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.


Special Note:
This is the followup to my “First Kiss” story.
This is a letter I actually received. Upon rediscovering it, I realized it would be the perfect “next chapter” in the Ginevra story. I contacted the sender and received his permission to use it in this blog, and, with changes amounting to less than twenty-five characters, I submit it for your pleasure.

Gentlemen readers, you can do this. Ladies, you can hope for it. It’s not impossible to do, It’s not impossible to receive, and well, let’s just say it was effective. Very effective.

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Five Minute Friday: Beautiful

Beautiful“When I saw you, I just thought you were so beautiful.”

My God. I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’m one of the lucky ones, those blessed among women, those who are gifted with attractiveness. But when he told me that, I just went dumb. I had no words. I didn’t know what to say.

Not because I hadn’t heard it before.

But because he meant it.

That kind of sincerity can’t be faked. And when I heard it, I knew it. I can spot flattery a mile away. I’ve got 20/20 vision when it comes to schmoozing. Enough men have tried to pick me up that my feet need never touch the earth again.

But this was real. This was so real.

These are the words that every woman wants to hear. And I was hearing them. And I was crying and laughing all at the same time. That’s a feeling that can’t come from a bottle, be it booze or pills.

That is real. That’s beautiful.


What’s Five Minute Friday?

A blog-prompt project dreamt up by LisaJo Baker, which you can read about here. The basic idea is that you spend five minutes of writing, generally unedited (I correct typos, WAY too OCD not to do that), on a prompt that she provides just after midnight via a tweet, then spread the word, and link up. Interested? Join up. Enjoy a delightful assortment by clicking on the picture to the right.

Today’s Five Minute Friday selection is also here!

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First Kiss

Palmer House Hilton Chicago MainMy heels click smartly on the highly polished floor as I wander the lobby while waiting for you to check us in.

"You really are nervous," a touch of amazement tinges your voice as you take my hand in the elevator and find it’s shaking. No one else is in the elevator, but you don’t kiss me.

"I always tell people that nervousness is a sign you care. That if you didn’t give a rip, you’d never be nervous…" Even my voice is shaking and the words tumble out–too fast.

"Shhhh." You put a finger on my lips. "Enough talking, Princess. Let’s–"

Your words are cut off by the chime of the elevator. As we exit, I feel your hand on my waist as you lead me down the hall to the room.

The bellman will be up with the luggage soon, so I sit on the sofa that faces the TV. Curiosity wins out and I ask, "You started to say something?"

"Oh. Yes. Let’s just go right to the art museum. We have several hours before dinner."

I nod and then the luggage comes and you’re occupied and I rummage in my purse for more lipstick, realizing even as I apply it that it was never intended as a force field and maybe we shouldn’t have come and maybe you’ll think I’m too fat and I sure said some ridiculous things in the car like I tend to do and you’re going to be sorry you brought me here and then there’s dinner and after that we’ll come back here and you’ll want to "unwrap me like a wonderful gift" which sounded so romantic it almost made me cry and gave me butterflies for the entire trip but I think they’ve all flown away because

"Earth to Ginevra…" You snap your fingers in front of me and I startle. "Those heels are very, very sexy, but I think you’ll want flats for the museum." I start to get up, but you put your hands on my shoulders. "No. Stay here. What bag are they in? I’ll bring them."

You find the shoes, bring them, and move the coffee table. "This is the only pair we have in your size ma’am."

I laugh because you really do look like a shoe salesman kneeling there. But you don’t act like one since I’m pretty sure they’re not ever allowed to tickle the client’s ankles. When your hand moves up to my calf the butterflies wake up and it feels like they’ve invited some bumblebees. But then you’re standing and you offer your hand. I stand and you draw me over to the window.

The midday sun filters through the sheer drapes and the sounds of some street musicians drift up; barely audible through the closed windows.

I open my mouth to say something and you stop me. "Age before beauty. Ah! There’s a smile! No; let me finish. I know you’re nervous. It’s very alluring. No; wait. I’m not done. I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want. That’s just wrong. I’ll lead you, but I won’t force you. Ginevra, princess, hush. Listen to me. We can go very, very, very slow. Scratch that. We *will* go very, very slowly. Exquisitely slowly. If we end up doing nothing but kissing, all night long–that blush makes you even more desirable, you know–I’m fine with that. Whatever the Lady wants. You know that, and you have known that. Now, if I have to, just this once, I’ll go down on one knee and beg. I have been dreaming and fantasizing about your beautiful, kissable lips for weeks. May I, please, kiss you? Even just once?"

Because we’re standing about a foot apart, I shift my weight to step towards you. You stop me again, saying, "I want this to be perfect." I feel your fingers under my chin; tilting my head, and then your lips are on mine and it’s gentle and soft and almost holy. And you kiss me again, and then a third time.

I open my eyes and see your smile. Your eyes are laughing as you whisper, "Would the Lady like some more?"

And all I can say is, "Yes."

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Five Minute Friday: Beloved

5-minute-friday-1I’m not feeling it.

Beloved is for the new bride, honeymoon-rumpled and smiling. Beloved is for the newly born, powder-fresh and still a little wet behind the ears. Beloved is even a slightly strange book by Toni Morrison.

But it’s not me. I’m not feeling it.

I’m bewitched, bothered and bewildered, but not beloved. I’ve been besotted. I’m currently bespectacled. I’m even a little bedraggled, since I just finished salting the winter-time sidewalks. But I’m not beloved. I’m sometimes benighted and sometimes even bedazzled, but I’m not feeling beloved.

Fortunately, my feelings have nothing to do with the truth.

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God. … In this way the love of God was revealed to us: God sent His only Son into the world so that we might have life through Him. … Beloved, if God so loved us, we also must love one another. (1 John 4:7, 9, 11)


What’s Five Minute Friday?

A blog-prompt project dreamt up by LisaJo Baker, which you can read about here. The skinny is that you spend five minutes of writing, generally unedited (I correct typos, WAY too OCD not to do that, and set up links), on a prompt that she provides just after midnight via a tweet, then spread the word, and link up. Interested? Join up. Check it out.

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