Mood:  not sure

I used to want to be a writer. I used to want to be a muckraker--an investigative journalist. I used to write. I used to be a fact checker; close to seeking the out the truth for the greater good. All of it never gelled for me. I'm not sad nor depressed about it. The desire to be writer just extinguished like a flame being deprieved air. Old friends and classmates ask me now if I'm still writing for it was that strong of a passion when I was 14, 15, 16, 20, 21. Things change. I'm embarrased to admit that I'm not into writing anymore, not like before. Every now and then, I write a little missive. Nothing worthy of sharing.

I had a poem published in a college journal back in 1995. I can't remember the journal nor the poem. I think both burned up in my apartment fire later that year. Five years later, I wrote porn. Erotica. Smut. Whatever you want to call it. It was pretty good. I still have it. Had some published in Playgirl. Proud moments for me. I even used my skills to write catalog entries for plus-size lingere. I was paid in corsets. lol. Then the depression came. Then the medicine. Kind of lost my desire to write. I refocused my energy--librarain, mom, cat owner.

Recently, I wrote a scene. I don't if you can call it a short story. It's something. It can stand on its own or be expanded. I decided to share it. I like it. Sometimes I can't stand myself. Sometimes I think that the joy can't be happening to me. That's the inspiration of this little thing I called "The Meeting."

--Kiki

The Meeting

September 15, 2009 ©

As soon as he saw her, his body began to crush in on itself. His lungs tightened, his ribcage began to shrink around his organs, and his heart began to beat faster to free itself. He wanted her. Had to have her. So paralyzed by his body’s implosion was he, that he could not hardly move to greet her. Using all of his strength, he tilted his head and gave a lopsided and closed-move grin. Her eyes widened then her mouth gaped for a second and then closed. She lowered her eyes to the floor, and the fear of rejection burned in his belly.

            Look back up, he thought. I’m smiling at you, beautiful.

She saw him. She saw the smile aimed in her direction, and the only thing she could do was look down. He wasn’t smiling at her, she concluded. They, all of the hes, never smile at her. They smile over her, behind her, beside her but never at her. She brought her glass to her lips and sipped slowly, purposefully trying not to look at him again to quickly and be met with an apologetic head nod. She picked her head up and glanced at him. He smiled a little broader this time.

            Is he really flirting with me? She asked and then looked over her shoulder just in case.

            I am, his eyes seemed to respond. She smiled back, and parted her lips a bit. Finally, she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. The seduction had begun.

            Hi. His throat was dry, but he had hoped it had sounded dashing and raspy not cracking like a prepubescent boy.

            Hi. She liked the way her voice sounded when she spoke. She had been told that it was full bodied and inviting like her figure. However, most men never got past the figure.

            I’m Simon. He extended his hand.

            Jo. She extended her hand and Simon took it. He gave it a hardy shake before bring it to his mouth. His lips were warm and moist as it grazed across Jo’s knuckles. She shivered, and already declared that she was his.