(in response to the November Notes Writing Challenge as hosted by A Reading Writer and Heartstring Eulogies and a daily prompt!)


I read Sienna’s messages again, looking for what? There was no hidden meaning, no subterfuge. Just her words, her truth. She’d ‘moved on’? Well hoo-fucking-ray for her. What did that even mean? Moved on to what? Or maybe to who? I didn’t want to even entertain that thought, found the very notion of her with someone else irritating, annoying, fucking irksome.

I prowled around my house restlessly, fighting the urge to go see her. My demons were riding me hard today, whispering doubts and lies, telling me she was never mine anyway. Telling me I should move on. Maybe they were right. I picked up the half finished note I’d been working on when her text came in and skimmed over it.

Why was I wasting time, begging her to talk to me when she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested. Didn’t give a flying fuck. Where was my pride? I screwed up the piece of paper and tested out my throwing arm for three points. Rewarded myself with a chocolate from the box I’d planned to send with the note.

Note she would ignore, chocolates she didn’t want, I reminded myself as I shoved another one into my mouth. Before I knew it I’d eaten the whole damned box so there was nothing to send anyway. I felt sick then, not so much from all the sugar, but from knowing I was letting her go.

I went to my studio, found solace the only place I ever did as I picked up a guitar and played. I played the song I’d written for her that had become such a big hit. Then I played the one I’d written for us the day before, that I hoped would become an even bigger hit. It had promise but now, I didn’t know if I’d ever play it again. Lastly I played the first song we’d danced to together, let the memory play through my mind, one last time.

We’d been out to dinner, our first real date. She was wearing a dress, a swirl of pink and red that left her legs bare, a terrible temptation. She’d allowed me to pick her up and now we were parked outside her building, not wanting the night to end but knowing it was too soon for her to invite me in.

Then a song had come on the radio and she’d exclaimed, “I love this song!”

I teased her about her poor taste in music and she’d acted offended but I’d seen her smile and on impulse I’d jumped out of the car and rushed around to open her door.

“Dance with me,” I’d urged. “It’s about all this crappy music is good for.”

She’d flowed into my arms with a smile and we’d danced beneath the stars as she sang softly:

Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah, they were all yellow.

I played the last chord then sat in silence, remembering that at the end of the song we’d shared our first kiss. I remembered how my heart had raced, how my hands had trembled, how kissing her had felt like coming home.

I went and fished that unfinished letter out of the trash. I wasn’t moving on, I wasn’t giving up. I closed my eyes and pictured her when she’d opened her front door and surprised us both. She’d looked happy to see me, if only for an instant. I wanted to see that look on her face again, wanted her smiles and her laughter. Fuck it, I was a greedy bastard, I wanted it all.


continues here


    1. Author

      Thanks, just what I was aiming for!

        1. Author

          Wait, men have feels? Who knew?

            1. Author

              Oh that’s what’s missing in my story! I often wonder if I’m giving my male characters too many emotions, now I know what to replace it with, thanks πŸ˜€

              1. LOL, men have emotions too… just depends on the man as to how he expresses it. Or bottles it up inside until it manifests as a ‘real’ illness like a stroke! πŸ˜›

                1. Author

                  Gawd, don’t stroke out on me! Show me all your feelings, I promise not to laugh too loudly πŸ˜›

                    1. Author

                      That’s the spirit!

  1. I’m a terrible person. Your heart’s getting torn apart and I’m wanting to try chocolates with peaches & ice cream now.

    *palms face in self-disgust*

    1. I’d be right there with you if it was a warm slice of pecan pie or butter pecan ice cream!! Those trump personal trauma! πŸ˜›

      1. Author

        Ice cream is the universal fixer, not sure about the pie though …

          1. Author

            Pecan pie does? Have to take your word for it πŸ˜›

              1. Author

                I’ve never seen one, I don’t think they’re a thing here in Australia, our cafes are stocked with vanilla slices or as some like to call them ‘snot blocks’, tasty!

                  1. Author

                    Thought you were a brave soldier? It’s vanilla custard sandwiched between two layers of pastry with a sweet white icing … now I want one!

                    1. Author

                      You might get it there as a mille-feuille or a Napolean slice? Your pecan pie looks very very sweet!

                    2. I will see what the local pie places have! πŸ™‚ And pecan pie is sweet.

                    3. Author

                      Come round, I’ll whip one up for you πŸ˜‰

                    4. Author

                      You forgot to say ‘Mistress’ πŸ˜›

                    5. LOL!! I’m at a coffee shop laughing and now people are staring.

                    6. Author

                      Lucky for you I’m not a mean Dom or I’d be ordering you to beg like the good boy you are, then they’d really be staring … and maybe calling the men in white coats πŸ˜‰

                    7. Wait, I thought I got to be the one with the whip? πŸ˜›

                    8. Author

                      Um nope! Did you miss the bit where you call me Mistress? Haha, doing my own rofling here now πŸ˜›

                    9. Thought that was some Aussie Language to American translation issues…. πŸ˜›

                    10. Author

                      You’re the one with the funny accent but good excuse. Oh go on then, whip me! Whip me! πŸ˜›

                    11. Author

                      Well you know I live your your approval, errr … Master? Sir?

                    12. Your Supreme High Awesomeness will do just fine! πŸ™‚

                    13. Author

                      Imagine yelling that in the heat of the moment! I have new admiration for your wife πŸ˜›

                    14. Nah, she bosses me around like she’s a drill sergeant so I have to live vicariously online. πŸ™‚

                    15. Author

                      Geez, I bet you’re a handful! πŸ˜›

    2. Author

      Since it’s fiction so not my actual heart I’ll forgive you. My real problem is mixing the chocolate with peaches, that’s many kinds of wrong!

      1. Ok, thanks – at first I thought it was fiction. But then today something made me think it might be real and I felt awful for my last peaches & ice cream comment. Then this time I was thinking chocolate candies on the side – not mixed in – and I realized “Man, if this guy’s really getting shredded and you’re all about snackie-time ideas…” and I felt like a creep.

        But I’m very glad to know -officially- it is fiction. Whew. πŸ™‚

        1. Author

          Well I’m sort of chuffed you thought it might be real, means I’m doing something right πŸ˜€ So long as you don’t mix the peaches and chocolate, all is forgiven! I promise it’s all fiction so enjoy your imaginary snacks … I’m a mean writer, I love that you see him as getting ‘shredded’!!

    1. Author

      Thank you so much πŸ™‚

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