Leather Seats.

We may be growing up, but we're never going down.

...

Eyes frantic, he analyzed the situation

The shivers rippling through his body were not from the cold,

and the hysteria in his voice wasn't either.

His leather seat made the awkward noises leather seats usually do as he attempted to act casual.

Nothing was casual about latenight business meetings in frozen, deserted parking lots.

 

Even the sun had deserted him as she walked gracefully toward his car.

If only the snow and concrete would give way to her ugly Ugg boots,

Then maybe he would have a second chance at salvation.

Maybe then he would have something left to salvage.

 

She flashed a smile that never reached her eyes,

and his eyes flashed to the ring on her finger.

Of course.

 

He rolled down his window and let the cold from her eyes fill the cab of his truck.

He let her steal the last of his bodyheat.

 

She handed him a small leather bag that matched his torn, shredded seats,

filled with things that all mattered, but were of no importance

and walked away, still in proud posession of his heart, his soul,

and his baby in her ever-growing belly.

 

 

 ...

The potent smell of gasoline set his remaining braincells aflame,

along with everything else he had once valued.

There would be nothing left of this godforsaken home,

or any of battlescars lingering inside of it.

 

The damp carpet tried to grab at his feet, but it was no good.

He had a sense of revenge to fight back the urge to retreat,

and kept the gasoline tank dangerously close to the backburner,

where he had once placed his life, his future, his career.

 

He wiped his hands on his faded courderoy pants,

and again analyzed the situation with those beautiful, green, frantic eyes.

 

He would have nothing left to come back to.

But this is not what bunched his eyebrows together, or

made his uneasy, piano playing hands pulling out his mousy hair.

 

Ashes or not, He never had anything left to come back to.

 

He tried to outrun the realization of complete insanity,

and wiped the sweat from his brow as he opened the door,

and stepped through it,

 

only to come walking back through it once again.

Author's Note

Ugh. I give up.

Reviews

[Zatoichi]

evocative, richly descriptive, you're the best at setting a scene. If you work seriously at your writing, I wonder where that would lead you? I could see you writing plays, novels and always poetry/music.
Do you ever want to write longer prose pieces?