Play Nice

A word about the original writing found on this site

Unless otherwise noted, these are my words, ideas, thoughts and feelings. If you like them great, if you don't that's fine too.

You're welcome to quote my writing, but please make sure you include a link back to the page from which you got the material.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
Creative Commons License

Thanks,
Patricia

Briefly

[This is where the summary would go if I'd bothered to write one.]

« You don't know meSilence »
grooving

The music keeps playing long after she leaves. The scratch of the needle on the vinyl humming softly under the plaintive voice crooning out the once-familiar love song. Suddenly it seems as if he can hear every sound, the turn of the door knob as she closes the door, the touch of her finger on the elevator button, the soft slide of the elevator door as it closes, the purr of the car engine as she drives away. And still, the needle turns.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the loveseat where she’d been sitting. Slowly the indentation of her body disappears, like fog rolling away from the sun. He has an itch to touch the cushion, to feel, what he imagines, is the warmth of her body, but he hesitates a little too long and then, it’s as if she never was.

And still the words fill the air.

His eyes close and he searches inside for things he can’t name. He imagines he is capable of traveling through his veins, flowing along with the tide, his heart pumping him forward and backward, but he feels lost. And this confuses him because how can he be lost in his own body? His heart pumps.

He opens his eyes and scans the room checking for signs that she would return. Here and there little things call her name, but he knows it’s in vain. The things left behind are things she no longer needs. She won’t be back. And still the needle turns.

It is past ironic that the songs playing now were their songs. That they are playing now would be considered by many to be a cruel turn of fate, but his mind doesn’t work this way. So, instead of raging and smashing the turntable into a wall as so many would, he sits in the chair and watches the needle traverse the grooves.

His heart pumps and the needle turns. And the song plays on.

Published 11/06/02 in Writing • | Views: 2084 times | Print

2 Comments & Trackbacks



oh you. shush.

Posted by patricia  on  11/07  at  10:32 AM

Post a comment

Name:

Email::

URL::

Smileys



First time commenting? Please read the disclaimer. Thanks.

Remember me

Subscribe to comments?

Submit the word you see below:


Love it live.
Your comment will appear below as you type.