Windy and Writerly Wednesdays

Today was blustery.

It was beautiful and sunny and warm and the wind whipped up around you every time you stepped outside. The ground was scattered with dry leaves that swirled around in jetties of wind. Profoundly (and quite accurately), my friend Katie said, "This wind makes me feel like Pocahontas." This is not appropriate February weather.

Luckily, the weather figured its shit out soon enough. It started to blizzard. The snow, wet and heavy, is covering everything and it is glorious. As much as I resent winter, I cannot deny it is beautiful.

In this edition of Writing Wednesday (which is not technically a thing, just convenient as it's a Wednesday and I've been writing), I'm going to give you an excerpt of a story I am writing entitled There's No Such Thing As Gravity, title courtesy of my brother James. This is the first creative writing I've done in about a year and I'm pretty excited about it. Let me know what you think in the comments. Or don't. Whatever.

There's No Such Thing As Gravity

Nothing ever stands still.

Watching her sleep under the sheen of early morning light, he can't remember what happened the night before. He can see the faint outline her body makes under the sheets; shadows fall dark in the concave of her waist, sunlight splashes against the curve of her hip. She is curled towards him, her head tucked under his chin. Lying together on his mattress, he tries to remember her name.

His mouth tastes as if it's coated with a film of sawdust. He stands up, and she shifts, snuggling down deeper into the sheets, into the empty space he left in the bed. He walks to the bathroom, turns on the sink faucet, and splashes some water into his mouth. He looks up at himself in the mirror, water drooling from his lips, and swallows hard once.

Fucking idiot. He spits into the sink. What a fucking idiot. A headache pounds at his temples and he thinks, You should get out of here, go. Before she wakes up. He turns back to glance at the bed.

She's standing in the doorway, wearing his shirt. She tucks a piece of hair behind one ear. "Hey."

"Hey."

Leaning against the doorjamb, she looks like she wants to run. His shirt is too big for her--the sleeves fall down to her elbows, the hem is almost at her knees. It hangs awkwardly, like it's draped on a mannequin. She bites her bottom lip, then says, "I think I'm gonna go."

Clearing his throat, he rubs a hand over his cheek. "Right. Yeah." Trying to sound like he knows what he's doing, he says, "Do you need me to call you a taxi?"

"No." She presses her lips together, then smiles. "Thanks." She walks back to the bed, and her hair swings down the length of her back.

He thinks, Don't let her go. As she reaches for her crumpled shirt on the floor, he says, "Wait."

She turns to him.

"Do you want to get some coffee?" He fumbles with the words, and as soon as they're out of his mouth, he wishes he hadn't said them.

She chews the inside of her cheek, and she looks at the ground, at the empty space between them. Twisting the hem of his shirt between her fingers, she says, "I'm sorry." Her voice is so quiet, he almost can't hear what she said. "I can't."

"Oh." Feeling exposed, he shrugs. "No worries."

She picks up her shirt from the floor and just holds it. "It's not that I don't want to." Hesitating, she twists her hands around the shirt, as if she was wringing it dry. She exhales. "Maybe some other time?"

"Yeah. Sure."

She nods once, and pulls off his shirt.

He averts his eyes, unsure of where to look. "I'll be downstairs."

As he turns away, she says, "Wait." She stands there naked, hair pulled to one shoulder. Her hands are fidgety, fingers drumming on the outsides of her thighs. She says, "Maybe I could go for some coffee."

xoxo,
Danya