I've only been posting complete stories. I've gotten out of posting bits here so I thought I'd post the intro of my next short story. This is not a barn-burner. It's a quite story about two flawed and unhappy people who find each other -- not exactly a new concept, but oh well. So there won't be fireworks in the beginning. What I hope to do is establish a strong voice for the MC and begin to establish another character. I may take out the second to last paragraph and with some changes, use it later. I like it but it may be too much here.
Unless you see something glaring in the grammar or punctuation -- no need to nit pick. I'll edit and proof later.
No Working Title
1st Draft
Millie heard the roar of an engine and the hiss of breaks. It sounded like a large piece of equipment or a truck of some kind. She rolled over on her stomach and covered her head with a pillow. A man shouted, “Over hear! No — over hear! That’s it!” Then she heard a car door slam and more shouting.
What the fuck? This early — on a Saturday?
But she hadn't cursed aloud — so ingrained were her mother’s admonitions. You’ll sound cheap and nice men don’t like cheap women. Even at the age of thirty two, her mother’s directives held sway.
She lay still for a few minutes, until it became clear that the noise outside would preclude sleep.
Draping her comforter over her shoulders like a stole, she looked out the window and saw a moving van. There was a man standing in the parking lot, waving and pointing at the condominium directly across from Millie’s. He looked handsome and had the physique of a swimmer — tall with broad shoulders. When the driver and another mover approached him, the man spoke to them and gestured in a way that suggested he was accustomed to being in control. He looked arrogant, Millie thought. But then he smiled and said something that made the men laugh, so perhaps he was nice.
As the men emptied the truck, she took stock of her new neighbor’s possessions. The lines of the furniture were clean, the colors sedate. There were a few pieces: a side table, an armoire and a plantation desk, that looked like antiques. And it appeared he owned real paintings, not framed prints or posters. He had taste.
Did he have a wife or a live-in girlfriend? She looked for evidence: a vanity, baskets of potpourri or frilly drapes — nothing.
The man appeared to be in his thirties — so why no woman? Was he divorced? Not likely. His furniture was not of the post-divorce variety: the plaid sofa and plush chairs formerly relegated to the playroom or the bachelor pad décor rescued from the garage.
Was he gay? He was wearing an Atlanta Braves hat and owned golf clubs. She was thinking gay men don't wear sports paraphernalia or play golf. She chastised herself for indulging in stereotypes, and then reconsidered. Based on here experience he probably was not gay. But what about the hat? Was he bald? Moments later, he took the hat off. No, not bald. Not even thinning. His hair was thick, dark and full.
He looked like a man who lived according to a plan. A plan that would not include a woman like Millie. After all, as she’d heard her mother say on numerous occasions, she was plain. And even beyond appearance, she had accepted plainness as her benchmark in all things.
She watched the movers take the last item from the truck — a king-sized mattress — and her neighbor disappeared into his new home. She rubbed her eyes and fell back to the bed. The day loomed. No plans and no obligations — and no one. She was tired, having spent the previous evening drinking wine and grading papers until the last of the late-night talk shows was over. A typical Friday night.
And today would be a typical Saturday, spent running errands and doing laundry — just another flat day — her designation for those days without highs or lows, joy or sadness. Once the flat days had been intermittent, scattered between the few bright days and the many dark days. Now, the chemicals crushed her emotions down or pushed them up to form a flat gray disk that turned slowly from morning to night, with only an occasional spark or bump. She considered the alternative and traced the scars on each wrist with an index finger. They weren't the faded markings of a cry–for–help; they were the embossed strokes of a silent surrender.
She crawled beneath the covers and lifted her worn flannel night gown above her waist. She thought of her new neighbor and imagined his weight on her body, his breath on her neck. She imagined she was beautiful, and for a moment, she felt something. She tensed — then felt a soft, warm tremor. The moving van drove away with a low rumble. It was quite. She fell into a deep sleep.
