Through a dark wood cont’d

As requested in comments to part 1 below (read that bit before this one or it won’t make sense), here is another little stab at some fiction and hence workshop/drafty in-progress still. 

Part 2

“Don’t bother, there’s no signal out here, I already tried my evil Blackberry. I am afraid to say we’re in a digital black void.”

Fuck the fuck off. 

“I see that.” She hoped her voice sounded like honey on buttered toast and not give away what was going on inside her mind which was starting to resemble a scene from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

“Oh well, we’re supposed to be enjoying the silence, right?” she offered, mostly to herself.

He had wrapped one of the large towels around his waist but it still seemed teeny on him. She avoided looking at his feet as he came and sat down beside her. He kissed her clavicle, the part that he liked to say he ‘owned’, a tiny piece of her real-estate that was the key to her acquiescence, its triangle shape when bent towards him a perfect receptacle for desire.

She would tell him. She would just say it.

“I love you.”

It hung in the air like a perfect smoke ring.

She glanced at the wastepaper basket in the corner. Was it lined? Because she was going to puke.

“Hey….you okay?” he whispered, pulling her jaw, something she had always hated, so that she was looking directly at him.

“It’s just…” she stammered uselessly, “that…you are so wonderful and I am not, really, so wonderful, and you are so thoughtful and kind and…” She trailed off, circling her finger in her palm in minute circles she hoped would signal to the universe that her ship was going down.

“And? Someone you could love too?”

The air was hot and thick like Apocalypse Now not remotely resembling a Pacific Northwest rain forest. Why? Why did she put herself in these situations? Wasn’t there some creed cowboys lived by? Always sit in the corner of the saloon, near the door so you can either kill anyone coming at you or escape quickly.

You are not a cowboy she told herself. I know that, she replied.

He pulled her hand onto his lap. Did he love her sweaty hand too? Her criminal hand, her deficient bitchy fucked-up hand ? She doubted it. He liked its smallness or maybe the way it wrapped around him, or when it scraped down his back. He didn’t love the beat up cuticles, the sunspots, the fault lines that said this one’s a fraud, this one will run your heart over with a manual lawnmower. No, he didn’t see any of that in her small hands. It was a cute a dumpling to him, a child’s hand, adorable, and harmless.

“You don’t love me. You think you do but you don’t. It’s an illusion Anthony. Did you know that the Buddhists say you can’t even start loving someone until after all the chemicals have died off which takes two years. So clearly you are still in the chemical phase.”

He chuckled, that knowing, I am Yoda in a large man’s body chuckle and she was thrilled to hear it. Because it was like oxygen. If she could not feel terrible and feel angry instead then she had a fighting chance.

“Sam, you are really something, you know that? Someone tells you they love you and you offer them reasons why not to?” He stood up and walked over to the Raven’s suite picturesque window that was made for transformative moments. Yeah, transformative in a Stephen King-like way, she thought to herself.

“I just want to be real. For once, I’d like that.” Her voice sounded oddly flat. She heard something scrape against the wall and looked at the floor; was there wildlife on the inside of this place?

He turned and she was surprised by the emotion on his face. Was he crying? Oh dear god please no.

“I don’t know who damaged you, but it wasn’t me, okay? I fucking love you, I want to be with you, I’m here, you are here, together in the middle of nowhere to be fucking real? This is real Sam.” He yelled, which called forth all of her entire Genghis Khan tribes, like a great, echoing horn blow, from the depths of her soul. Thank you. Thank you for yelling.

“YOU have no FUCKING clue what is real. Don’t even give me that horse shit! You have never had a goddamn worry in your entire life! You’ve lived in a Yale-induced bubble of privilege. Every girl you ever wanted you took. Just like a can of soup off a shelf. And for ONCE in your life someone isn’t letting you.” She noticed her hand waving in the air and pulled it down to her side. She had to stay in control.

He strode over to her. For a split second she had the image of being struck.

He leaned over her and she could smell his cologne, which she did in fact love, and said quietly, “I love you.”

She looked into his hazel eyes, which had lovely flecks of yellow and stood up, like a monologist entering the stage as she strode towards the living room, which was now suffused with the last light of the day, a thin moon beginning to emerge between the trees.

“Well, I don’t love you,” she called out behind her.

Actually. I don’t love this place either, in fact I fucking hate it, I don’t even like nature, I don’t like trees hanging around like sentinels that won’t move, I don’t like that ugly bedspread, it looks like it came in a bed-in-a-bag and I have forgotten my hairdryer and I don’t like, in fact, I hate Adirondack furniture, eagle art, or wood sculptures of animals.If you ‘loved’ me you would know this. You would inherently have known how much I would hate it here. This is living proof of our incompatibility.” She was hyperventilating. At this very moment, she vowed to her long-lost God that if he or she, could find a way for her to get out of this situation she would in fact never sleep with another guy. Yeah right, offered her embittered self, which she quickly hushed, imgagining how bad that kind of cynicism would sound to God. If he even existed…because if he did then…


She felt his hands on her shoulders, actually upon on her trapezoids, which had oddly risen up to her ears in knotted stress.

“I know you love me. And you’re going to stay here. And be without your iPhone and we’re going to sit in those stinking, ugly Adirondack chairs and drink wine and talk about how we’re going to spend our lives together.”

Hell was her love life and karma was this very moment come to its full, explosive, justice-seeking, barefoot, country-loving, wooden, hairy, digitaless, fucking glory.


Filed under Dating, Humour, Relationships

4 responses to “Through a dark wood cont’d

  1. Monica

    Margaret, this has to be finished and published. I understand it is “fiction” (hmmmmm) but PLEASE FINISH IT! Your writing is absolutely captivating – much like your petulant, adorable and hilarious mind – and speaks to my heart about the sometimes ridiculous relational situations we (some) women can find themselves in and the bizarre way we handle them. Or is this just a sister thing???
    I C F W to read MORE.

    • Well, I’ll have to layer it in to the little ebook I”m writing, ‘based on true tweets’, this summer. I dream of undisturbed hours of writing…like 1000! Just need to crank out the bestseller than I can write full-time. :):)

  2. Monica

    May time slow down for your pen to catch up.

  3. Pingback: This mission never existed | Margaret Doyle

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