His finger tips lightly brushed her cheek slowly cupping her chin, his thumb gently lifting her face upwards, her lips a breath away from his chest, his neck; his pores, unshaven skin, strangely familiar as her senses instinctually awoke to her unconscious memories of him.  While the idea of this moment had been percolating for years she was overwhelmed at the intensity of her complete inability to control her thoughts, her body, her primal reactions to his touch.  Even more alarming was the ache that speared her gut and spread down her groin, through the top of her legs, tingling her knees; spreading up into her chest, behind her lungs, rising through her collarbones to her shoulders.  An image flashed of her sons squeezing drops of food colouring into glass Mason jars filled with water, how they would patiently watch the chemicals creep into webs, observing until the intermingled muddiness consumed the tangled rainbow.  

The ache continued seeping up through her neck and jaw, punctuating her checks with a sharp slap, while stabbing her heart and squeezing her breath.  He lifted his other hand from her shoulder, fingers brushing a strand of hair, tracing her face, her chin now resting in the heart of his hands.  Unwillingly her senses continued absorbing him; his lips, his nose, unchanged by the years, the jarring familiarity of a freckle.  She had thought she had remembered his eyes, they had been seeing each other for over a week now, but that was across tables, rooms, distances.  Time had spun silver through his hair and deepened creases, but had not diminished his lush, long eyelashes, which she had forgotten were so beautiful.  It was this unknown known she remembers acknowledging first before drowning into his hazel sea. 

Completely immobilized, the ache grew exponentially, painful, and she absurdly wondered; this must be what it feels like to gaze into the flesh of your own soul.  These eyes were mine once, the crisp dark flecks, the colour intimate, and she was again paralyzingly astonished to have memories of these minutia that she did not know she kept, neatly wrapped, unnamed, unacknowledged.  Waiting to burst.

She felt the ache erupting in the back of her throat, hitting the roof of her mouth, tasting iron, tasting fear.  His lips touched hers, hesitatingly; her eyes shut, she smelled his spicy body wash, recognizing it as her husband’s preferred brand, and she felt him guide her chin more firmly.  She sensed quiet, determined urgency.  Their lips moved together effortlessly, seemingly remembering their own unique dance.  He tasted like the coffee he had purchased before suggesting a walk across the bridge, for a better view, for old times’ sake; both apparently still fluent after decades in their unspoken language to understand the request masked the undertow of true intentions – stay longer, talk more, choose me. 

The gentle pressure deepened, his tongue licked hers, a sharp memory exploding of high school afternoon make-out sessions when he tasted like Kraft dinner and ketchup.  Is it possible to remember how someone tastes?  The shape, the feel, the movement of their mouth, their tongue? Her final thought before lifting her hands up to his chest, pressing, opening her eyes, pulling her lips from his, gasping for breath; how could I not know that I remember all of him?  This ache is us.

Hello! Okay, I am finally on here trying to figure out how WordPress works. And it only took me over a month to do it. Thank you so much for setting this up. I am honoured that you trust your writing with me, and I know I can say the same to you – thank you for letting me share with you.

I have been looking into different ideas on how to even start writing, or how you go about starting and shaping a thought (never mind extending that into a plot!). Here is something I came across that I found interesting. Would you like to try it together? The idea is that you give yourself 7 minutes. Set a timer, and you just write for 7 minutes straight It doesn’t matter if it’s good, or grammatically correct, or spelled correctly. I think the idea is stream of conscious writing. They give 10 writing prompts to start, and I will share them below. Let’s start with one, and maybe we can keep doing all of them? 7 minutes each just to start writing.

1. As I stared out the window…

2. The bird lazily flew overhead as I lay there…

3. As he crept, a low growl sounded behind him…

4. Regretting everything she’d done in the past five minutes, she…

5. In an instant, I knew we were not alone…

6. As he opened the enormous, antique chest…

7. Tired, the old man eased himself into…

8. The house was empty, even the furniture was gone…

9 As she wandered through the graveyard…

10. “It’s not what it looks like,” he pleaded…

Also, I am going to post something that I wrote a couple of months ago, something that came out when I was trying to figure out feelings about a past relationship. Specifically around why I still felt such strong anxiety when thinking or talking about this person, someone I haven’t had any communication with in 11 years. A friend suggested writing a letter as a cathartic practice, and when I went to write it this came out instead. I am thinking this is story that I need to write about. When I see you next (and if you are interested!) I can explain more about where this is coming from (I think anyway). Thanks again for doing this with me. If nothing else, I am very much looking forward to creating and spending time doing something enjoyable. Now let’s see if I can figure out how to post that word doc…..

Hi Rhonda, it’s Kathleen introducing myself in this new context. I am thankful we will enjoy creativity together. My task before the weekend is to put up some brainstorming tactics so we can find a topic or story thread to bloom out.

Maybe some starter lines? What do you think?