“Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go,” I said as I waited out front in the car.
“I’m coming,” Jen said. I doubted it though. Jen was always late.
“Toss your stuff in the back I want to beat the traffic.”
“Relax, we have plenty of time.”
“We had plenty of time. I had plenty of time.”
“Shut up, it’s been like 3 minutes.”
“I’ve been sitting out here for an hour,” I said. What I didn’t say was that I had arrived 45 minutes early.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
“Fine. Should I toss my stuff in the back?”
He moved slowly as she watched him.
She liked how he moved. He moved with a confidence that he didn’t really deserve but never seemed to care and that made him all the better.
He was different that any other guy she’d dated, especially the ones she dated after Michael died.
She was standing there thinking about the first time she met him.
She had spent too much time in the city. Too much time around boys and not men.
They were all a little too polished and a little too well spoken as though you’d never really be able…
I finished my coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash. I tugged on the chain around my neck. It had been itching all morning.
“She in there?” I asked the officer.
“Yeah. They just brought her in.”
I opened the door to find the young woman sitting patiently in the chair. I took the seat across from her, tossing my little leather notebook on the table.
“I’m Detective Ford. Miss….er, Simpson right?”
“Yes. Why am I here?” she asked.
“We just have some questions for you. Just routine really.”
“Okay. Did I do something wrong?”
It was a rainy day, the day that I met her.
I remember the raindrops making their way down the shop windows as I walked along the sidewalk. I clutched my collar, holding it close to keep the precipitation out, and to keep the last vestiges of warmth inside my jacket. The jacket was old and worn, and it was already doing an unsatisfactory job keeping the rain at bay; I refused to carry an umbrella. My shoes splashed in the ever-growing menagerie of puddles, and I had to find some respite from the rain. …
It all started with a message.
As all modern love stories do.
Two writers caught in a dance, a simple thing, but complex at the same time. Each of them weaving their stories into the other’s and neither realizing what was happening until it was far too late.
She wrote stories.
He wrote poetry, among other things. But, she saw him as a poet first and that was the lens through which she would always see him.
“I liked this a lot,” he wrote, “I can see every detail you wrote. It just came alive. …
It was one of those nights.
Usually, I don’t mind taking the dog.
Actually, it’s one of my favorite things to do.
But last night, I was tired and was hoping to chill on the couch and find something on Netflix.
The queen of the house had other ideas though. She sat down in front of me and kept glancing towards the door, which was her signal to me that we should be going on a walk.
I tried pleading with her, but she is a tough negotiator and far too cute to say no to.
Even in middle age…
I walked down the old country road late that night.
The fall air was cool, and the trees on both sides of the street were beginning to turn as I could see all kinds of different hues as my flashlight surveyed the ground.
This wasn’t the kind of place with streetlights.
I still had a couple miles to go. Jimmy was supposed to give me a ride back from the party but he had one too many and now was sleeping in a hammock on the front porch. …
Matthew Donnellon is a writer, artist, and sit down comedian. He is the author of The Curious Case of Emma Lee and Other Stories.