I just started writing this, randomly staring away from my computer screen, and I haven't really proof read it or anything. It's still In Progress, with capitals mind.
I dislike the beginning, as I'm clearly trying to hard to be poetic or descriptive or something, but if I ever manage to finish it, that'll all change, don't worry.
rinne likes it, and she's my chicklit target audience. But she may be a bit biased.
She sits staring into the mirror, not understanding what has happened, not knowing why he had to leave the way he did. They used to talk: easy words slipping out of their mouths and into the air, surrounding them, blanketing them in the safety of their love and trust. But now, now he has left, with harsh words that cut like cold air from a broken windowpane.
“Dammit,” the words break the silence in the apartment. “What happened?”
But she knows exactly what happened: she can trace each and every wrong move that got her to this place in life. It’s hard to live without regrets when she can’t remember doing anything right.
It started right, that much she knows. He said hello in the grocery store, and she smiled, brushed her bangs out of her eyes and dropped the eggs she was holding. Maybe that was the first mistake, but she doesn’t really believe that, because he just handed her another carton, and she noticed his stained smock.
“I’m paying for my ph. d.” He said, apparently noticing the disappointment in her eyes. Pushing thirty and stock-boy wasn’t exactly the right combination. He smiled his crooked smile again, and almost winked. “I’ll take care of your eggs.”
“Thanks” she whispered aloud, just like her memory self. No, that part was definitely right. The mistake came later.
The first time he met her dad, got caught in a debate over the values of hockey versus football - the European kind, and whether George Lucas should be forgiven for his heinous crimes against filmmaking.
”You’re good,” he’d said, a benediction almost unheard of. “You’re good for my daughter. Even if you are a soccer-playing, Ewok-loving math geek.” Without even saying it, the words don’t screw it up punk hung in the air. Her dad could do a mean psychic Dirty Harry.
“I draw the line at Gungans.” Ryan said in a voice that said something else entirely. He took her hand as they walked in to dinner, and everyone knew the subject was closed.
The mistake wasn’t there either.
Their trip to Venice. The giggle that escaped her lips when he sang softly in bastardized Italian. Siete il mio sole from lips that spouted logarithms and equations. There was a flash of hurt before the song became English, became a Texan accent, became nothing resembling language unless yodeling counted.