What do you mean it's over?

Hello my little chickadees,


Last night I was talking with sig other about my most recent post and he had some very interesting insight, well once we got past the fact the story had nothing to do with us;) He brought up a very valid point when we were discussing the narrators belief that both parties felt the relationship was over. He questioned how did she know he felt the same way if they never talked about dissatisfaction. Maybe she was done but he thought though things were tense it didn't mean they were through. Sig other is a firm believer in the idea that two people are not usually done with a relationship at the same time, there is almost always one of the two holding out hope. Well of course this got my muse all hot and bothered thinking about how to tell the story of the other half of this duo. So here it goes.

Unedited and Copyrighted by Janet Eckford

     I look up from my plate to see her staring at me and I smile. She is lovely tonight as she is always lovey. I place my steak into my mouth and moan my appreciation at the tenderness of the meat. I love this place, always have, and they never seem to disappoint. With my mouth full I point to her soup that she has been swirling absently for some time and not eating. She takes a spoonful and smiles in appreciation. There is something off about her smile and I open my mouth to ask if she enjoys it but decide against it.
     Things have been tense lately and tonight, our special night, I don't want to have one of our arguments. I look back at my plate because I don't want her to see that I'm thinking of that tension that has begun to permeate our life. I feel it like a great bleak fog that clouds my words and actions, making little things I say distorted and complex. I want tonight to be good like it was in the past. A past that had us eating and laughing at this very restaurant, at this very table, until the place closed down around us.
     "I love this place," I smile at her, hoping the memory of that love will infuse a joy in the evening I'm starting to feel lacking.
     "It's the best," she replies with a smile that is lacking the luster she once had.
     I don't know what to say now as that fog grows thicker around us. I can see her but it is only the vague outline of what she used to be, of what we used to mean to each other. I feel a ball of frustration form in my chest because it doesn't seem fair that it has become so hard. She is still so lovely to me but there is something happening that I don't understand.
     "Do you think we should plant roses this year?"
     I want to shout that I don't give a fuck about roses. I want to ask her what's going on and why won't she talk to me. I want to say whatever I need to say to not have us fighting but to clear up this pallor of gloom that has taken us into its cold embrace but instead I breath deeply and say, "That's something to think about."
     It isn't something to think about but I have no other thoughts left. I can't help a small sigh of frustration escaping from my lips as I fork more food into my mouth. Food that has lost it's initial vibrancy and tang.
     "Yes, something to think about," she murmurs as she catches my eye.
     As I look into the face of this person I love, the person I have given and taken from in equal parts, I see something there that shouldn't be. It is as if the fog has cleared for this briefest of moments and I have to look away at what clarity has brought.
     "I love this place," I say, trying desperately to get back to what we once had.
     "It's the best," she replies.
     The sight of her small sad smile is too much for me and I go back to my food and listening to the sounds of this place that used to be so safe and realize I'm okay with the fog for now.

Where does love go when it has died?

Hello my little romantics,

I'm sitting here all by my lonesome at work, trying desperately to finish tasks off my To Do List, and listening to sad songs. I of course am having no success checking off those important boxes on my list and have instead immersed myself in enjoying my sad songs and contemplating love that is lost and POOF a little ditty popped in my head. I think that we should always remember that as great as love is, the loss of it is even more poignent because when we find it again it makes us appreciate that new love that much more. As sharing is caring here's a little treat for everyone.

Cheers!

Janet


Unedited and Copyrighted by Janet Eckford

I watch him as he meticulously cuts his meat before he places it in his mouth. He gives a grin of approval as he chews on the savory steak. We love this place, it’s where we had our first date and we make an effort to come here at least once a month. Tonight is different though because it’s our anniversary. A marker in time of what we have given and received from each other. He smiles at me as he points to my plate with his fork. I nod an affirmative and spoon soup into my mouth. I make a face of appreciation at the spicy flavors of the broth and the subtle texture of the vegetables chopped expertly inside. I am pleased like he is pleased by the food placed in front of me because that is something easy to focus on, not the elephant that sits at our table waving a white flag of surrender.

We are silent as we have our meal. The bustle of the popular restaurant providing a symphony of noise and vibrancy we lack in our lives. We are comfortable and we are complacent and that spark of joy and exuberance we experienced in the past as died. It flickered for some time hoping we would feed it the oxygen it needed to blaze once again but we didn’t have the time to tend it, didn’t make the time to care, and now that last spark of hope is snuffed out.

“I love this place,” he smiles at me from across the table.

“It’s the best,” I reply with my own smile.

Such good little actors in a play that should have had its final curtain ages ago but the audience expects one more act, one final call. I look at my plate because if I continue to look at his face I know I will see the truth we both know reflected back at me. Love doesn’t live here anymore, it has died a slow and painful death, and all that is left in the silent halls of our existence is the ghost of what once was, a phantom that haunts us night after night, because we know it is there, a memory of what we used to have.

“Do you think we should plant roses this year?”

I’m desperate now because as the silence deepens I can hear that damn elephant sighing in frustration from being ignored.

“That’s something to think about,” he answers with a sound of introspectrum that is too great for the question.

I think he can hear the elephant as well clearing its throat and begging for our attention, so he focuses on the question I have thrown out there like a life savior in the storm that has now become our existence.

“Yes, something to think about,” I murmur as I catch his eye.

We have our moment, where we recognize what we have become, but I don’t know who looks away first but it is lost and we are back where we started.

“I love this place,” he says with false cheer.

“It’s the best,” I reply with a sad smile.

Our elephant lowers it white flag of surrender but knows that it can’t be ignored forever.

I've got a story to tell you...

Hello Guys and Gals!

I've been pretty busy lately with all things not writing and today I finally had time to put to paper the ideas that have been floating around in my head. As always I find myself quite fascinated with short stories that are both sensual and mysterious. I'm completely intrigued with this idea of telling a story that has no real beginning, middle, and end, but is instead a snapshot in time. The barest glimpse of a story that could be or never was. I think it might have something to do with my subconscious tapping into a more voyeuristic aspect of my nature. Not being a huge fan of reality T.V. living in a culture that is completely saturated with it may have some influence on my new literary hobby as well. I'm not inundated with the great minutia of living (or the artfully crafted concept of it) that most people are fed as viewing pleasure and quite possibly have tried to fill that void through a new exploration of writing.

My newest story, At That Hour, for which I have been threatened with great bodily harm by a dearest friend if I don't finish it, is the perfect example of this new direction I'm taking. I want to introduce characters in a moment in time, in which there is no history and no future, where they exist solely in that moment to...well to do what ever I tell them to do. There is a fantastical element to this knew direction that I find myself in, which is no surprise because I adore Fantastic Literature*. I like the tingle of suspense, the idea of what would happen if, and mostly I like this all with a little sex.

Therefore, I've got a story to tell you my dears, if you take the time to listen.

Janet

*One of my favorite books of shorts is called Black Water: The Book of Fantastic Literature Ed. by Alberto Manguel. Here's one of the stories that has stuck with me the most and influences me today as a writer.
http://thenostalgialeague.com/olmag/climax.html

A Decade of Life Well Spent

Hello Lovers,

I'm utilizing the blogger app on my phone as I lounge in my bed contemplating starting my day. I have stuff to do. Work and errands, the everyday clutter of living that causes the day to pass into another. The dog has a scrape on his paw from his great escape through a window last night that requires attention. We may make a trip to Costco because doesn't that lamp need a light? The same little inconsequential things that make up life. Yet what makes them all tolerable, enjoyable and at times slightly bearable is the person who does them with me. Here's to 10 years of the spectacular, the mundane, and all the madness that entails you being mine and me being yours. Looking forward to many more decades.

Happy Anniversary Sig Other.

Janet