Oisin
gone but not forgotten
Here's a little one I found in my archives. I plead temporary insanity when I wrote it. Stand by your buckets; here we go...
MAKING TRACKS
He looked on in silence as he stood in the open doorway, leaning his shoulder against the woodwork. She, as if he wasn’t there, stretched up on her tiptoes and dragged a bright blue rucksack down from off the top of the wardrobe. Having bounced it on the bed, she began hurriedly stuffing it with clothes, which she wrenched from their hangers. Her face was almost emotionless until she had trouble fastening a buckle. Then, in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle the tear which left a black mascara track down her cheek, she gave a little sniff and dabbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand.
In an act exasperation, she straightened up and angled her face towards the ceiling. Her efforts were futile. No matter how hard she blinked, she could not suppress the cascade of teardrops that tumbled uncontrollably down her face until they dripped off her chin.
He wanted to cry as much as she did. He wanted to tell her that, but he couldn’t. He was also tempted to cross the room and put a comforting arm around her, but he knew he shouldn’t. Things had gone way too far for that, so he looked on helplessly as she tugged first one arm and then the other into the sleeves of her black leather motorcycling jacket.
It was no use. He couldn’t let this happen. If he stood idly by, without at least trying to reason with her just one more time, he knew he’d never be able to live with himself.
Knowing he was risking life and limb he edged up alongside her and hesitantly placed a hand on her quivering shoulder.
‘Sam can’t we…’
‘Sod off!’ She shrugged him away.
He backed off. She rammed her fingers deep into the trouser pocket of her leathers and produced a bunch of keys. She tore an ignition key from the ring.
‘Here! I won’t be needing these,’ she snarled, tossing the remaining keys at him. ‘It’ll save the expense of having new ones cut for whichever member of your harem you intend moving in next.’
He let the keys drop to the floor in front of him and thought how vulnerable she appeared, even when she was trying to be as nasty as she could.
If he could think of one more word in the English language that would convince her to stay he would have used it, but there were no words left. All he could do was let things run their course – go with the flow. He bit his bottom lip as he watched her snatch up her dark green crash helmet and dip her blonde bob in it. With her expression hid behind the snapped down tinted visor, she slung the rucksack onto her shoulder.
The last he heard of Samantha, after the slamming of the back door, was the notching up of the gears on her 650 Suzuki Sports as she banked it left, through the gate, off the drive and onto the tarmac road.
He gazed out of the window at the tyre marks left on the drive. And his tears didn’t leave any black mascara tracks down his face.
THE END
MAKING TRACKS
He looked on in silence as he stood in the open doorway, leaning his shoulder against the woodwork. She, as if he wasn’t there, stretched up on her tiptoes and dragged a bright blue rucksack down from off the top of the wardrobe. Having bounced it on the bed, she began hurriedly stuffing it with clothes, which she wrenched from their hangers. Her face was almost emotionless until she had trouble fastening a buckle. Then, in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle the tear which left a black mascara track down her cheek, she gave a little sniff and dabbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand.
In an act exasperation, she straightened up and angled her face towards the ceiling. Her efforts were futile. No matter how hard she blinked, she could not suppress the cascade of teardrops that tumbled uncontrollably down her face until they dripped off her chin.
He wanted to cry as much as she did. He wanted to tell her that, but he couldn’t. He was also tempted to cross the room and put a comforting arm around her, but he knew he shouldn’t. Things had gone way too far for that, so he looked on helplessly as she tugged first one arm and then the other into the sleeves of her black leather motorcycling jacket.
It was no use. He couldn’t let this happen. If he stood idly by, without at least trying to reason with her just one more time, he knew he’d never be able to live with himself.
Knowing he was risking life and limb he edged up alongside her and hesitantly placed a hand on her quivering shoulder.
‘Sam can’t we…’
‘Sod off!’ She shrugged him away.
He backed off. She rammed her fingers deep into the trouser pocket of her leathers and produced a bunch of keys. She tore an ignition key from the ring.
‘Here! I won’t be needing these,’ she snarled, tossing the remaining keys at him. ‘It’ll save the expense of having new ones cut for whichever member of your harem you intend moving in next.’
He let the keys drop to the floor in front of him and thought how vulnerable she appeared, even when she was trying to be as nasty as she could.
If he could think of one more word in the English language that would convince her to stay he would have used it, but there were no words left. All he could do was let things run their course – go with the flow. He bit his bottom lip as he watched her snatch up her dark green crash helmet and dip her blonde bob in it. With her expression hid behind the snapped down tinted visor, she slung the rucksack onto her shoulder.
The last he heard of Samantha, after the slamming of the back door, was the notching up of the gears on her 650 Suzuki Sports as she banked it left, through the gate, off the drive and onto the tarmac road.
He gazed out of the window at the tyre marks left on the drive. And his tears didn’t leave any black mascara tracks down his face.
THE END
