Love In 2014
Entry by: Serendipity
14th February 2014
She bore the resemblance of a twenty-first century Marilyn Monroe, hair that fell upon the pillow like cascading swoops from an artists brush, platinum waves broken by linear cappuccinos and deeper bronzes.
Her eyelids fluttered and for a moment I abdicated my right to a next breath. I couldn't allow the spell to be broken. Not yet.
The early morning sun pushed gently through the horizontal blinds above my shoulder creating a feng shui effect on the solid blue comforter. The one that she had chosen, to match the blue-grey paint of the bedroom walls. She will appreciate the feng shui, when she awakens.
On any other morning she'd be out of bed before me, pulling her delicate legs into tight blue jeans and wrapping her upper body in a low cut T or a button-down blouse, reaching for earings and chains in the shadowed dimness of a solitary lamp. She'd creep to my side of the bed and bend to my face, planting a light kiss on my forehead while I luxuriate in the smell of her.
Today she sleeps, casualty to an nocturnal power outage and an alarm clock disarmed, its red digits blinking sardonically. I watch her breathe. It comes easily to her, without thought, so unlike my own breaths at this moment, bridled and purposeful.
She moans softly and I wonder who she's dreaming of - what she's dreaming of. Three years together and I still don't really know her. She is mystery like a crop circle, the lines of Nazca. She will awaken and tell me later of her dream world, the bizarre happenings of her post R.E.M. sleep patterns, the time when wakefulness wrestles lightly with sleep for position. It's an honest telling. She has nothing to hide.
I can't do the same. My dream-tellings are brushed with a wash of evasion and deception. A perjury of the soul. My dreams do not include her. They aren't friendly to this monogomous love. They are treacherous, ludicrous, fanciful schemings of a man's crazed fantasies. But I love her - and so I lie with a smile.
My life is wrapped in lies. She doesn't know the way my head swivels when her sister Paige walks in the room, the way I follow the contours of the legs of the waitress at DeLuca's or that I have a secret crush on Zooey Deschanel. And I can't explain to her that my love for her can still be perfect within that imperfect dichotomy. I am the monster - she the
Her eyelids fluttered and for a moment I abdicated my right to a next breath. I couldn't allow the spell to be broken. Not yet.
The early morning sun pushed gently through the horizontal blinds above my shoulder creating a feng shui effect on the solid blue comforter. The one that she had chosen, to match the blue-grey paint of the bedroom walls. She will appreciate the feng shui, when she awakens.
On any other morning she'd be out of bed before me, pulling her delicate legs into tight blue jeans and wrapping her upper body in a low cut T or a button-down blouse, reaching for earings and chains in the shadowed dimness of a solitary lamp. She'd creep to my side of the bed and bend to my face, planting a light kiss on my forehead while I luxuriate in the smell of her.
Today she sleeps, casualty to an nocturnal power outage and an alarm clock disarmed, its red digits blinking sardonically. I watch her breathe. It comes easily to her, without thought, so unlike my own breaths at this moment, bridled and purposeful.
She moans softly and I wonder who she's dreaming of - what she's dreaming of. Three years together and I still don't really know her. She is mystery like a crop circle, the lines of Nazca. She will awaken and tell me later of her dream world, the bizarre happenings of her post R.E.M. sleep patterns, the time when wakefulness wrestles lightly with sleep for position. It's an honest telling. She has nothing to hide.
I can't do the same. My dream-tellings are brushed with a wash of evasion and deception. A perjury of the soul. My dreams do not include her. They aren't friendly to this monogomous love. They are treacherous, ludicrous, fanciful schemings of a man's crazed fantasies. But I love her - and so I lie with a smile.
My life is wrapped in lies. She doesn't know the way my head swivels when her sister Paige walks in the room, the way I follow the contours of the legs of the waitress at DeLuca's or that I have a secret crush on Zooey Deschanel. And I can't explain to her that my love for her can still be perfect within that imperfect dichotomy. I am the monster - she the
Feedback: Average score: 238 (48%)
Marker comments:
Marker 1
- Feedback: There were some great lines here, my favourite being the concept of the narrator's breaths being bridled and purposeful. I like how the woman described is revealed as the wife part way through, and the realism of how little we know about each other and the truth of how love for one and desire for others lie side by side in the one person.
What grated with me, particularly at the beginning, was the frequency of descriptor-noun pairs, it gave a monotonous rhythm, cascading swoops, artists brush, platinum waves, linear cappuccinos, deeper bronzes, horizontal blinds, blue comforter, delicate legs, tight blue jeans, upper body, low cut T, button down blouse... I found it harder to engage with the images because of the repeating rhythm. kinda mesmerising. I liked the second half better, it felt like you got into the flow of it a bit more.
Marker 2
- Feedback: I suspect there's more to this story than I received. It finishes in mid-sentence.
I also have to admit that I'm not usually a fan of this style of romance writing. I always feel the writer of these sorts of romances are trying much too hard to be exotic and only end up creating something which is over spiced and rather suffocating, with no atmosphere to speak of.
That said, at a sentence level, I found your story logic smooth and easy to follow - the easiest of those read so far - even if not exactly effortless.
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