William Faulkner said "Kill your Darlings" This doesn't mean dishing out the antifreeze to your loved ones, it means cut to the chase and have the courage to get rid of the elements that you love so much.
I'm new, I'm a beginner, I enjoy writing but need someone to help me kill my babies. Be cruel to be kind!
Thursday, March 8, 2012
A Cold Heart Cannot Dance
“Make love to me?"
She thinks it these days rather than says it, knowing full well he hasn’t the time for her that he once had. He’s drunk. He’s watching dancers on television and ogling their bodies. She washes the dishes and examines her reflection in the kitchen window. She can’t understand why he’s been unfaithful. She has a lovely body. Sure, it’s marked by the imperfections that make a woman perfect, stretch marks from pregnancy, cellulite from age but her skin is soft, her shape curvy.
The first time she found out about his lust for others, she never told him about the errant jeans she found...two sizes too small. She never revealed that she's seen the text messages and the photos on a friend of a friend's Facebook page. She loves him. Puts up with his philandering as long as he provides and comes back. Loving the narcissistis difficult but she made the commitment. "Always" means "Always" to her. She knows he can't help being what he is. Some would call her weak. She sees herself as strong...strong enough to tolerate his infidelity and love him anyway.
Things were so different when they met. They were two sides of the same coin, scales in equilibrium, yin and yang, together for ever. Dancers in the dark, two pieces of the same puzzle.
Everything soured after the birth of their daughter. Post natal depression for her and a lack of empathy from him saw him stray into the arms, and beds, of others. Not just one, but many indiscretions. She’d left him once but he’d pleaded with her to return. They meant nothing, he told her. Men aren't meant to be monogamous, he told her and, beneath it all, it was her he loved. It was her he came home to, returned to. She should be grateful, he'd said, and she swallowed it, hook line and sinker.
These days everything is unbalanced. She the doting wife and mother. He the careless lover, inattentive father. He sits on the couch ogling, or so she thinks. He’s not. He’s looking at her, never truly the love of his life but the mother of his children and wishing she looked like the girls on the television. He bears no guilt. He's oblivious to her wants. He's just a red-blooded man with needs and she doesn't 'complete' him any more. Lascivious eyes glide back towards the screen as bare legs tantalise, skin and gyrations beckon.
“They have awesome bodies these girls.”
She clangs plates and retreats. Tears fall. She wishes she had what they have. She wishes she could prance in front of him, seductive and rhythmic. She wishes the television would explode and he’d notice her pain.
She talks to the rising foam in a filling sink.
“Fuck you. I’ve tried. I love you but you're a selfish, impossible jerk!”
She stares at her reflection, fluffs her curls, removes her apron. She smooths her hands over breasts and waist, examines her derriere.
“I used to have a nice ass…Dammit, I still have a nice ass.”
She moves into the bathroom and fingers curls, applies some gloss to lips longing to be kissed. Bulgari White behind her ears, on her ankles and wrists… she changes into seductive lingerie.
“Honey come look this chick’s amazing….”
She sashays into the lounge. He’s lounging on the couch. His erection visible.
She sidles up to him and kisses his forehead. He waves her away.
“Not now hun…”
His eyes glued to the blue sequins and limber moves.
She sits beside him and rubs his back. He stares at the screen. Her hands moving between his thighs. Along his legs. He oblivious to the hint, ungrateful for the interruption.
She rises, walks into the kitchen. Pours a glass of wine and cries. Tears unheard over the Tango.
“Fuck you…” she sobs. “See me..feel me…” Tears pour into the glass. Lingerie wasted, is covered with a dressing gown as the baby cries in an adjacent room.
His hands are moving south. The dancer a provocateur. He is oblivious to her heartbreak.
She’s still beautiful, wholesome, buxom, sexy, but he’s bent on a fantasy. He’s a watcher in the house when he should be holding her close, tending to her needs.
The baby quieted, she announces she’s going to bed.
“Love you….” She laments and blows him a kiss. His hand still on his crotch, he mutters "’night".
Tears on her pillow her sobs muffled by fresh cotton and down. All she wants is his warmth. His hands on her body, his lips against hers. Her heart begins to break.
His heart begins to thump as his hands play. The sequins blur as the flood of pain in his arm and chest intensify. He sweats. The Tango continues, the television too loud. With the crescendo of the dance he shakes, vibrates, terror across his ashen face.
Her sobs inaudible. Despair across her once calm visage.
His cries muffled by fading breath. His heart infarcts, explodes.
“Kristy….kr...." Is all he musters before his life force departs. She begins to dream as the sadness renders her unconscious.