La Verne

La Verne.

It’s nearly bedtime. I enjoy the night. The quiet out in the backyard. The occasional car on the street. I like to try and guess if it’s a car or truck. Motorcycles are easiest to call. I wonder how many nights must I drink enough to be willing to climb into bed without her. A friend is teaching me guitar. He lent me one of his. Tonight I held it on my lap. My arms and fingers grip and strum at it. I work at mastering the G Major Scale. The last time I took lessons was to learn a song well enough to sway the last woman who’d had enough of my shit and turned her back on us. Now, I strum the same strings. What you hope changes, sometimes, never really does. I’ve left the door open. And I can hear a baby cry in the apartments across the way. I’ve been here longer than most on this block. I’ve seen young couples move in with the woman’s belly bulging with their first child. I’ve seen those babies stumble and stomp past my driveway. A few have stayed around long enough for me to see them peddle their first without training wheels. My phone doesn’t ring. No one at my door. My cold feet under the sheets are no longer any one else’s concern but mine. How long will I have to wait for the morning. When will I see a new day. And will I have stopped loving her by then.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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