Writer's Challenge - AKA Writer's Den, Lounge, Wreck Room etc etc

adorable · 01-26-2012, 03:31 PM

Valentine’s Day

I’m writing the schedule. Yet another bland task of no importance, similar to eating. The dates for next week annoy me. Like the dates from last week and the week before that. I’m sitting in your lap again, in your comfy chair with my hands loosely around your neck. You are distracted by the latest technological miracle. My focus is placing perfect butterfly kisses down your right cheek. “This thing is so complicated,” you say, wrestling your email open. The butterfly moves to your ear, and you absently bend your head to give it room to land. “Finally,” you mutter, satisfied that your superman like ability to control inanimate objects still exists. I lay my head on your shoulder and pout, “Take me to the Galapagos.” Scanning over your inbox you lightly sigh, and ask, “Why? What’s in the Galapagos?” I smile big. “There are turtles there. Big ones.” You look at me, and kiss me on the lips. You turn back to your email, and my head returns to your shoulder.
“We should move somewhere exciting,” I say, nuzzling into your neck.
“Like where?”
“Like St. Thomas.”
Your eyebrows raise at the thought, signaling to me you hadn’t thought of that one.
“Or maybe…,” I pause, suddenly unsure of such an important decision. “Well, I don’t know. Just some place where we’ll need to worry about hurricane season and barely be able to afford the insurance.” That makes us giggle. As you scroll around on your latest toy, I tell you to go to Sotheby's. It’s a favorite of ours. I bite my lip, tilting my head so I can watch you concentrate. I always love you most when your hands are focused on pleasing me. Finding it, you smile and I watch your fingers move the page down the real estate listings. Those are the houses we want. The ones on private islands or the a huge castle in the South of somewhere that we can’t pronounce or something ultra sleek in the trendiest part of New York City or a brownstone close to 221b Baker Street. Yes, a brownstone on Baker Street, we both agree, would be lovely. Close to all the quaint shops that sell fresh flowers. You point out we would be giving up a nice yard, but I convincingly argue that we could buy those ‘As Seen on TV’ upside down, tomato growing, miracle plants to make up for that and there would be no yard work ever again. That of course, makes you smile. Then you tell me that it would be nice to have one of those big metal things too, for over the island, to hang the pots and pans on. You are pretty sure you could install it yourself. Well, it would depend on what the ceiling looked like, of course. I absolutely love the idea. “Oh,” I say, more excited now, “And I think we should have one of those bathrooms too, like the one I saw in that magazine, the ones that are made of glass block and-” Abruptly, we both look up towards the door, hoping that it was just the wind. It wasn’t. Another knock comes. Louder this time.
“Yes?”
“You have a phone call from the water department about last quarter’s overbilling, would you like to take it?”
“Go ahead and transfer it to me.”

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01-26-2012, 03:31 PM	#36
adorable Member How Do You Identify?: Sarcastically Preferred Pronoun?: She Relationship Status: Unavailable Join Date: Feb 2010 Location: Home of the Yankee's Posts: 752 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 1,708 Thanked 2,644 Times in 590 Posts Rep Power: 12725119	Valentine’s Day I’m writing the schedule. Yet another bland task of no importance, similar to eating. The dates for next week annoy me. Like the dates from last week and the week before that. I’m sitting in your lap again, in your comfy chair with my hands loosely around your neck. You are distracted by the latest technological miracle. My focus is placing perfect butterfly kisses down your right cheek. “This thing is so complicated,” you say, wrestling your email open. The butterfly moves to your ear, and you absently bend your head to give it room to land. “Finally,” you mutter, satisfied that your superman like ability to control inanimate objects still exists. I lay my head on your shoulder and pout, “Take me to the Galapagos.” Scanning over your inbox you lightly sigh, and ask, “Why? What’s in the Galapagos?” I smile big. “There are turtles there. Big ones.” You look at me, and kiss me on the lips. You turn back to your email, and my head returns to your shoulder. “We should move somewhere exciting,” I say, nuzzling into your neck. “Like where?” “Like St. Thomas.” Your eyebrows raise at the thought, signaling to me you hadn’t thought of that one. “Or maybe…,” I pause, suddenly unsure of such an important decision. “Well, I don’t know. Just some place where we’ll need to worry about hurricane season and barely be able to afford the insurance.” That makes us giggle. As you scroll around on your latest toy, I tell you to go to Sotheby's. It’s a favorite of ours. I bite my lip, tilting my head so I can watch you concentrate. I always love you most when your hands are focused on pleasing me. Finding it, you smile and I watch your fingers move the page down the real estate listings. Those are the houses we want. The ones on private islands or the a huge castle in the South of somewhere that we can’t pronounce or something ultra sleek in the trendiest part of New York City or a brownstone close to 221b Baker Street. Yes, a brownstone on Baker Street, we both agree, would be lovely. Close to all the quaint shops that sell fresh flowers. You point out we would be giving up a nice yard, but I convincingly argue that we could buy those ‘As Seen on TV’ upside down, tomato growing, miracle plants to make up for that and there would be no yard work ever again. That of course, makes you smile. Then you tell me that it would be nice to have one of those big metal things too, for over the island, to hang the pots and pans on. You are pretty sure you could install it yourself. Well, it would depend on what the ceiling looked like, of course. I absolutely love the idea. “Oh,” I say, more excited now, “And I think we should have one of those bathrooms too, like the one I saw in that magazine, the ones that are made of glass block and-” Abruptly, we both look up towards the door, hoping that it was just the wind. It wasn’t. Another knock comes. Louder this time. “Yes?” “You have a phone call from the water department about last quarter’s overbilling, would you like to take it?” “Go ahead and transfer it to me.”