They went out in her little Mustang instead. She loved that car, and made sure to get sole title to it in the divorce. It was aqua. She’d seen only one other in that color in all the years she’d owned it, and that was on the cross-country drive. The northern winters had not been kind to its poor body, but the V-8 engine still growled like a lion. And it was fast. Flying in her little Mustang didn’t scare her one bit.
He would ride to her parent’s house, where she was staying while in town, and leave the bike there. He grumbled about it, making sure it was safe and secure within the fencing. He muttered about riffraff coming around to steal it. It was a beautiful bike, black and gleaming with soft leather seats and silvery chrome accents. She laughed it off, saying nothing is going to happen. And nothing ever did happen, to the bike.
(Another small excerpt from my WIP I call: Alma)
He fell in love with her.
She fell in love with love.
His name was Val, short for Valentin. She thought it perfect, karma, she had found her Valentino. He rode a motorcycle, hence the black leather jacket. He took her out on it.
She didn’t like the constriction of the helmet. It was heavy and she couldn’t see well. She didn’t like the speed and screamed as he made wicked turns, swaying, the pavement almost coming up to meet them. She clung to him for dear life, her arms tight around his slim waist. But mostly, she didn’t like the vulnerability, the openness, the lack of barrier between her and the rushing world. In her line of work, motorcyclists were known as organ donors.
(This is a bit from a book I’m writing.)
My father came to me last night in a dream. He looked as he did at my age, robust and strong. I was as I am now, as he gently escorted me down a busy city street to a night class. Traffic boomed all around us, headlights ablaze, and he did not speak as we walked amidst many others. Before leaving me, he pointed out the building I should go into as if I didn’t already know, and then he held me in his arms and kissed me on the cheek, his stubble rough against my skin.
Though I don’t often dream about my father, I still feel him with me these many years after his death. He was a simple man who put family above all. He believed in paying his way and if he couldn’t pay, he would do without. And we did, do without. Yet, I never went hungry or lacked a roof over my head. And it was only long after I’d left home that I realized how poor we truly were.
” Writing is a struggle against silence.” – Carlos Fuentes