Lord I Love - Writers Forum

Sasha Greenwood · 07-15-2006, 10:15 PM

(I would include the word count but I don't have a word processor anymore)

Will she love me? I ask myself, Will she love me? The pasta has been made, set neatly on the table, pr presented in large, white, porcelain bowls that have a flat, plat-like rim; shell noodles mixed with peas, topped with mint leaves a grated ricotta salata. I found the recipe in one of her own fashion magazines- the pointless ones that exploit overly skinny, socially beautiful women who have an innate ability of compelling any woman to buying over-the-shelf beauty sustaining lotions and diet pills. Not my love. She is stronger than that. She is more beautiful than any of those women, and she knows it.
There are two bowls, and one tall candle for the centerpiece. Just two bowls. Lena Horne sings out of the dark boxes and her voice fill the apartment. There's no need for artificial light, the candles on the counter, the coffee table, and the top of the entertainment set establish the perfect Romantic mood.

What is missing? Oh yes, my dearest.

I examine the room, once, and then again to confirm. Yes, it is perfect. The wine glasses laying on their rims, patiently awaiting to be turned right side up- desiring her soft lips as I do. Their clear surfaces reflect the flicker of the candle and the shadow of the front door opening, the silhouette of my love's lovely shape within it. I turn to see her image, my disheveled lady, her khaki blazer buttoned only twice from the bottom, her skirt slightly wrinkled, no pantie-hose to be torn- her feet were red around the edges of those tight tan heels. The door gives a low screech as she closes it, and finally she looks up to take in the scene I have worked so hard to put in front of her. Those fine, beautiful brows rise in exhausted shock. She takes in a swift breath, the wispy sound drowned by the Blues.

"Wow," is all she says. Nina Simone asks lyrically a question that I cannot say aloud: "Where do you come from, where do you go?"

"I cooked," I say, a little blandly. The task itself had taken the last ounce of my enthusiasm, but I knew I must press myself for more energy. She gives a weak smile and lays her portfolio flat on the counter.

"I hope you're hungry," I tell her jokingly as she is accustomed to. She takes a few steps and looks around the room while I walk to her chair, and, as I was pulling it out, say,

"It's healthy. I tried to find the healthiest damn thing" (light-hearted laugh) "It isn't easy."

She doesn't sit, but instead looks me in the eyes, "Dance with me."

I am shocked, but comply. My thick fingers run down the intrinsic curves of her body. We sway, embraced, in slow rhythms. Her head rests on my right shoulder, and I swear I feel my collared shirt dampen slowly.

There is a nervous pause.

"Can you--love someone who does not love you in return?" I find myself asking. She lifts her head, tears have moistened those delicate eyelashes.

"Yes baby, and it hurts--I know," she reaches up and plays with my hair gently, like she had done when we first bloomed. She knows I know, and I think she may have known a while.

"Will you love me?" I plead. She gives me a pathetic, almost sympathetic look, and kisses me lightly on the lips.

"I did love you baby," she says. Her hips cease to move, but my hands still loosely encircle her lower back. "I loved you, baby, but you forgot me, and you remembered I'm still here...too late," her voice wavers but a little, as if she had rehearsed these lines. My face, my entire body numbs.

"Will you love me?" is all I can manage to say. She buries her head in the fabric of my shirt and I feel her shaking it left to right.

"I did love you baby--" The pause is great. Billie was singing her blues now, at just a little faster pace than Nina; we cannot seem to keep up, or want to keep up, and sway in the same slow rhythm.

"Lord, I love my man," Billie says, her voice lifting in the air, "Tell the world I do. I love my man, tell the world I do. But when he mistreats me, makes me feel so blue."

I love my love, but I once did her great wrong, so now my morning, my love will be gone.

Glfralin · 07-15-2006, 10:28 PM

I like the way you build up the tension throughout the piece and don't reveal everything. I think you could use the words "my love" a little less and replace a few with some other endearment.

I think it may help to develop your characters a little quicker. There is a definite sensuality in this piece without having to slap the reader in the face.

Sasha Greenwood · 07-15-2006, 10:46 PM

Hmmm, yeah I was worried about the my love's but I thought the piece was too serious to refer to her as sweetie, or my hottie, such and such. It's more of her name in this one, but I can try to cut it down a little.

Anywho, thanks for the criticism.

Deathwishboy · 07-17-2006, 01:56 PM

I had no problems with the number of "My love" its just showed the reader the male characters true, honest feelings towards "his dearest". Plus how many other words are there with the same impact as "Love". I noticed a few typos, but as you say you have a lack of Word Pro.

Quote:

What if is missing?

Just one I picked out.

Still, it was romantic and feeds the soul so two thumbs up.

Sasha Greenwood · 07-17-2006, 09:01 PM

Thanks! I appreciate that.Haha, I'm so lost without my word, but I think it'll compel me into a better habit of actually re-reading it.