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The Right Words.

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“Why can't we just go to a friggin restaraunt without listening to five other tables' conversations?”
My husband asks, serious and obviously frustrated but still trying to keep it civil, avoid a full blown fight.
“I mean, really Noreen, when was the last time you listened to me on our anniversary dinner or even just a Tuesday night out instead of the suburban family next to us or the gay couple a few tables down?”
I am looking out the window, not wanting to get into it. There is a single mom on the corner with twins and a Blackberry to look after. How does she do it? I whip out the notebook that’s always resting, when dormant, in my back pocket, easily accessible.
To work or play? I seem to face this endless conundrum every day. I am scribbling down the first sentences of a new poem when I am violently ripped out of a sea of creative energy.
“YOU’RE DOING IT right now!” Mike shouts, and I reflexively shut the notebook and drop my pen.
“Calm down, Michael!” I say, gesturing to the road in front of us and nervously hoping there aren’t any cops watching. “Really, we’re on the road. Keep your eyes on the-“
“I’m sorry I shouted, but how can you not see something fundamentally wrong with constantly ignoring me? I mean, it’s not like I’m needy or anything, it’s just entirely unfair to favor meaningless strangers above your own husband.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, Mike. But it’s not like that; I’m not favoring ‘meaningless strangers’ above you, I’m just suddenly struck by creative inspiration and you happen to be there-“
“So it means nothing to you that we’re trying to have a romantic dinner or fun night out or just a normal conversation in the freaking car, you just have to give up everything around you when exposed to the slightest bit of inspiration?”
“Exactly. I mean, I wouldn’t rip you out of the office in the middle of the day and demand that you talk to me and drop everything.”
He sighs. We are pulling into our driveway, and I can tell he’s ready to end this. He’s not getting anywhere.
“I love you Noreen. I don’t want this to come between us anymore.”
“I love you too, Mike.” I say, my voice meaning it and my eyes trying to. I stare at him, trying to remember those first sparks that I had written countless poems about. As hard as I try to rekindle them, nothing is lighting up.
“Yeah,” he says, looking away. I can see a vague tear in his eye, the moisture of which is killing any possibility of the sparks reviving. “You just love writing more.”
And with that he leaves the red Mazda, slamming the door behind him. Guess it’s a good thing we didn’t jump the gun and buy that Honda Odyssey.

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_Elsy_ said...
Jun. 25, 2010 at 10:37 am

wow, you're a really good writer. You created the characters into real people. keep it up.

btw-can you check out some of my stuff?

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