Editor’s Note: I have been away for almost three months and all that time Liz Thurlow has been stuck in bed with Tony Babic. Now, some may say that is a good thing – but in my opinion, it is high time to get that girl out of there! So here goes with a 30 minute unplanned writing session
. . .
Liz lay on the bed stroking the hollow where Tony had been, re-imagining his hands playing over her, hearing again his whispered words of encouragement, those he breathed into her ear and those he muffled into the hollow of her neck. His poetry and his passion – how she wished she could hold onto that forever. She dreamed of waking in the morning with him by her side, to be able to turn her naked body toward him and wrap herself around those thighs. Their two beings entwined as one.
She sank her head into his pillow and breathed in the left behind smell of him, soaking it into her senses. His scent was so unique, musky, sweaty – it smelt like . . . like . . .
Well, it didn’t smell like Bob did, that was for sure. And it got into everything – the pillows, the sheets, the pores of her skin. It even hung in the air around the room. That was a problem they glossed over in the romance books.
“A penny for them?” Tony stood over her, dripping despite the towel hanging loosely around his hips.
“Oh, I thought the shower was still running,” Liz jerked out of her daydream.
“No, srce. It’s raining. You can hear it on the awning.”
Raining? Again? Oh shit.
“Liz? You need shower too, huh?” Tony pointed to the stain spreading across the bottom sheet.
Oh shit. Oh double shit. I still haven’t called the repair man for the clothes dryer. Why can’t Tony settle on a time to come calling? Leaves me hanging around all day never knowing when he plans on turning up. I can’t get anything done.
Tony dropped the towel to the floor, started stepping into his clothes. Liz snuck a look at the clock as she jumped off the bed. They were late again today. Not even two hours before Bob would get home.
“Ah Liz,” Tony’s hands were on her shoulders, turning her, his eyes taking in every inch of her naked body. “My perfect one. I am so unhappy to leave you, but as Dostoevsky says – ‘The greatest happiness is to know the source of unhappiness.’ . . . You are my greatest unhappiness and my greatest happiness. I leave you now, but I take this beautiful picture with me.”
Liz fidgeted a little, anxious to get the sheets off the bed and herself into the shower. Truth be known, while she lapped up the poetry in their lovemaking, the afterglow was getting tedious and more than a little corny. She was relieved when he let himself out the back door a few minutes later.
She opened the door to the bathroom, and surveyed the carnage in there. More towels on the floor, pools of water in front of the basin where he had stood naked and dripping, the cap left off Bob’s aftershave. Every day the same thing. Liz lunged at the towels, making savage swipes at the wet floor.
“So! If you love beauty so much – what the bloody hell do you call this!”
She caught a reflection, paused, looked at the naked woman with the sculpted body and tousled hair. it couldn’t be her. This woman was falling apart. She watched it start with the trembling hands, the towels tumbling out of her grasp, the shaking spreading through her body. Then the reflection disappeared as the woman sunk to the ground, crying in huge, silent bone-shaking sobs.
This is the eighth part in a story building exercise for character, Liz Thurlow.