Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
The hours blurred, contact with the outside world forgotten. We made boring sandwiches and laughed together, eyes twinkling with humour between long rounds of bodily pleasures, and then the night came again, long and dirty. I knew every single taste of her. I knew every dainty inch of her body. I adored every tiny part of her.
She called in sick at college and didn’t bother to get dressed for five solid days. Neither of us did. We didn’t step out through the front door. Not even to the shops for food supplies, or to the trash bins.
Her pussy was a delicate flower with a very good aptitude for taking cock, and her ass was always willing. Her mouth was a treasure. But so was her laugh. So was her smile. So was the way her eyes would light up over jokes and conversations. In those first few days we were superficial around our closeness, focusing on the physical pleasures without the risk of diving into the depths of mind, but that changed. We talked about everything from the wider world, to our views on the afterlife, to favourite characters in TV shows, books, movies. We talked about annoyances, and politics, and laughed about our quirky little habits. I smirked every time she pushed her glasses up her nose and she’d point out every time I tapped my chin when I was speaking.
It was only a matter of time before our chat turned towards the past. Not so much as to my family, or irresponsible choices this time, but to my career ones. It took me aback when Rosie asked if she could see one of my old thriller manuscripts after breakfast one morning. I had to dig my old laptop from the case it had been holed up in for months, and search back through old directories. My novels and attempts at them hadn’t seen the light in years.
I was in nothing but an open shirt with my laptop on my lap. I spun the screen to face her with my oldest manuscript on display, less than proudly.
“Feel free to take a look,” I said, but she shook her head, her eyes sparkling in her beautiful fascination.
“No. I love audio. I want to hear your voice, please. Can you read it to me?”
I wasn’t sure about that, but she carried on asking, spinning my screen back to me.
“Please, Julian, you have the best voice in the world.”
That was enough of a compliment. I cleared my throat and began to read my story. One I’d written around college, when I was about her age. A thriller, about a man who wakes up to find his wife gone, with nothing more than a note on their sideboard saying sorry.
My little goddess was transfixed right the way through the first few chapters. I paused after chapter four, but she shook her head with a smile.
“Keep going! I love it!”
Her enthusiasm was addictive.
“I’m serious!” she said. “I love it. It’s amazing.”
As it turned out, I loved it too. I loved reading my words out loud to her. My taste and style had changed a lot during my years in the lecture halls, but the story pulled me back into the memories. I remembered my creativity eating me up as I sat for hours every evening with my ashtray at my side, smoking and typing, lost in my imaginary world.
Sometimes surprises can hit so hard, they knock you sideways, and this was one of mine. I’d given up the writerly part of my soul a long, long time ago, but it was still there, like a shadow in the corner of my unconscious, waiting for me.
Rosie encouraged every second of it. Her enthusiasm was infectious. I kept reading through lunch and into the afternoon, even taking the laptop into the kitchen with us while Rosie made us a snack. The twists and turns of the plot was consuming her, her eyes fixed on me with every word.
I’d almost forgotten the ending myself, when it came to it. The fact that the woman had become besotted with someone from her criminal past – of which her husband had never been aware of.
Rosie applauded me, as though I’d written a literary prize winner, declaring it was brilliant, but she was wrong. It was ok, yes, fine, but it wasn’t brilliant. The story arc could have done with some extreme tightening, and the character development could have been ramped up considerably. Plus, there wasn’t enough depth in the feelings the man had shown for his wife, right at the beginning. All skills I’d been teaching other aspiring writers, but hadn’t yet used myself.
Yet.
It was the first time I’d had a calling to write in decades.
“Which others have you got?” Rosie asked, and I scrolled through some other files. Some finished, some half written. I’d had the trademark stack of rejection letters sky high on my desk for years. I’d almost forgotten most of the stories.