The old man looks down at the scattered photographs, moving them into some semblance of order. His nails are neat, but his knuckles are thickened by years of injury. “You could have come to me.”
She wheezes a laugh. “Turned up on your doorstep? What would you have done then?”
“Fucked you until you passed out.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know me. You never did!” He shoves the stack of photographs back across the table. “Keep your fucking mementos. It’s like a gallery of self-pity. It’s disgusting.” Then he takes a deep breath, straightens his big frame, and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have sent you away.”
“How could I know that?”
A growl rumbles in his broad chest. The grey of at his temples glints in the light. “How could you *not* know that? After all those years?”
“I didn’t trust you. I loved you, though. Why didn’t you come to me?” Suddenly the old woman’s eyes are brimming with tears. They trickle into the creases of skin.
His laugh is a bark. Sharp, bitter. “What? I’d turn up in some sewer of a city at the ass-end of the universe just so you could change your mind?”
The old woman says nothing.
Temper simmers beneath the surface of his aged face. “And you would have. Wouldn’t you?”
She looks stricken. Cornered. “I don’t know.”
I’m reading through and marveling at these older posts. I had to stop and comment when I came to this two-parter. It’s short and powerful like so many of your poems and stories. It occurred to me that I have found far more here (on your blog) about longing and desire than I anticipated. And the unrequited love and/or missed opportunities behind them. I think that is what makes your writing special to me. It’s not just a really good turn of phrase or hot sex. I recognize the emotions, pain, etc. behind the stories and it feels real. Thanks, RG.