Die Writing

Knives in the heart

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on February 1, 2014

He sat down heavily, silently, and pushed a glass of whiskey toward the redhead, buried nose in his own. She picked up hers, sniffed, and took a quick draw. It was cheap and strong, and she didn’t flinch.

“So you’re gonna take me home, cowboy?”

“No,” he said, still without looking up.

“Your wife’d get mad, huh?”

“She would.”

She leaned back. Her clever eyes sparked.

“So what was all that stuff about then? The dancing, the drinking, the movie-lot gruff?”

He waited for the right words, waited for them to rise up out of the whiskey with the smoke. Then when he had them, he looked, and fixed his eyes on her.

“I have a great home. The wife, the kids, it’s all just as you’d want them, you know? If I’d gone back twenty years and wrote down what I had wanted, well, then today you’d walk into my house and see just that. And you,” he closed his eyes, “you make me feel the knives in my heart. Aw I miss it. Miss it, damn it. So I’d come here for this feeling. This feeling and nothing more.”


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