Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

the good ending

“Please stop not loving me.”

The statement resonated in Tim’s mind, the words interjecting the constant ringing in his ears, which was caused by years of excessively loud rock and roll. It proved to make silence unnerving as the years went by. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee began to fill the air; the trained nose would define it as a blend of Colombian and Javanese coffee beans, though Tim merely defined it as a fine brew. He looked into his chipped cup, finding only the bottom of it within view. Without warning, he reached across the table for the crushed pack of Pall Malls that Robin had left behind, and placed them hastily in his coat, which was at the time strewn atop his chair. Some of the more discerning eyes in the café stared him, waiting to see the course of action he would take after a woman had so obviously left him behind; though those discerning eyes did not know the past. To them, their visit to a local café was interjected of a classic story of love gone sour. Tim stood up, dragging the chair across the floor in order for him to stand. It shrieked as it made its way across its path. He put on his coat, with its worn wenge corduroy, and which now contained Robin’s cigarettes along with scattered pieces of lint and a note written long enough in the past to be forgotten of its purpose. Straightening the jacket out as he left, Tim realized that it also contained a lighter.

The air outside the warm confines of the café was dry and harsh; sandpaper to the skin. A gust of wind heralded his exit, and it slightly tousled his hair as he began his search for Robin. He knew not the purpose of this search; she had not done so much as hint of her apparently inherent attraction. They shared conversations, over lunch, over dinner, over coffee, over gin, they shared empty, nonsensical flirting, all over the span of months. A moment shared almost a week ago, deemed a mistake by Tim, who’s deeming of it being a mistake, was mistaken. As he reminisced, he could still feel her lips on his. The feeling had not left, but it had been supressed.  The sidewalk proved unyielding to his feet, and allowed him to slowly walk towards an unknown destination. Street lights above him began to coalesce with each other, and the intermittent gusts of wind broke through his coat and chilled his skin. He hadn’t realized that a tavern that Robin frequented, and that Robin frequently brought him to, was no more than two minutes away by foot. It was also on the opposite side of the street. Cars blared their horns as Tim crossed; some would say for encouragement, others, to scold him for risking his life by jaywalking.

Robin was standing outside of the doors that led to drunken revelries, taking drags from a cigarette she acquired using her feminine wiles. The air had gotten colder as night encroached; the transition tingled her fingers, the only parts of her body that weren’t covered by clothes or locks of hair a colour that could be comparable to bourbon. A gust of wind almost caused her to drop her dose of nicotine. It instead caused her to notice the man standing two feet away from her, leaning against one of the tavern’s walls, smoking a cigarette that was lit exactly one-hundred and eight seconds before she noticed him. A nearby street light flickered.

“Tim,” she spoke. It was the first time she had said his name in just under a week. She walked towards him, ever so slowly, “Is that one of mine?”

“Here I thought you had something memorable to say,” he answered. Her words from an hour ago were still ringing in his mind. Tim was hoping to obscure them with another set of words spoken from her lips.

Robin inched closer to him; her eyes meeting the top of his shoulders. She reaches into his coat’s pocket, guessing correctly as to which pocket contained her rightful pack of Pall Malls, now two cigarettes short. “Thanks,” she whispered. With her whisper, Tim leaned closer to Robin, his eyes gazing into hers.

She couldn’t help but reciprocate. The clinking of glasses and the sound of laughter could be heard emanating from the innards of the tavern. Their eyes close, and their lips meet.

footnotes

  • that was some of the most lovey-dovey crap i’ve written in quite some time.
  • it took me a long while to write the final sentence. i have no idea why.
  • if you want the bad ending, replace the final sentence with, “Robin walks away, with full knowledge of what she was leaving behind, her desire, her new found yet preexisting desire. It was better that way.”
  • wenge is a shade of brown.

I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY, SARAH

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