Heart Murmurs: A Leap Year Story (part 2)

November 27, 2009

-December 25, 2003

For being Christmas Day, it sure isn’t very cheerful. I’m back at my parents’ house in El Paso, Texas, which is depressing enough in and of itself. There’s more to it though. The look on her face. I knew she was confiding in me, and what’s more- she was confiding in me for the first time. Of course I had to blow it. I’m such an awkward social disaster.

I got backed into a conversational corner, and even though that’s no excuse, I divulged her secret partially. I thought that maybe it would be okay, maybe the girl who I told wouldn’t say anything… I mean, she was another friend after all, but I was wrong. So, so wrong. I know Elaine was only trying to help, in her own way, but the look on Tania’s face was one of betrayal. Of humiliation. And it’s all my fault. Elaine, quickly realizing her blunder, tried to cover it up; tried to make it better, but it was too late. I blew it. Tania will never trust me again.

On the plus side, I got some more of my novel written! I couldn’t sleep anyway so I went for a run around five this morning then made breakfast. Everyone else was asleep, and the whole house was quiet. I was suddenly inspired and wrote five more pages! That’s one thing the desert is good for, inspiration. It’s so quiet, both mentally and physically, that the only sounds you hear are your own thoughts and the scratching noises of your pen on paper as you furiously tear across the canvas in a desperate attempt to capture every thought in its entirety! Sometimes I burn in feverish anticipation, each stroke of my pen only serving to further stoke the fires of my literary madness; for indeed, I am mad. When I get in these moods, I yearn for my pen the way a lover yearns for their object of affection.

I burn. Burn with the forbidden desire to seclude myself and write. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be reminded of my social awkwardness and I would forget my other love- him. Oh yes. Him. I admit to you, my journal, that I love him. I cheat on my novel with thoughts of him. My heart aches. He looked at me today. No, he didn’t look, he focused his gaze of quiet intensity on me, and I felt my body respond. My core quivered and I felt the heat of sexual desire sweep over me. I imagined what his lips must feel like, the taste of his tongue and the caress of his breath on my skin. Even now I feel myself getting hot just thinking about him. I imagine how divine it must be to run my fingers through his silky hair and trace my fingertips across his skin, feeling the hardness of his muscles and the coarseness of his body hair. Oh my God. Why do I torture myself like this? I’m like a bitch in heat when I’m around him.

I suppose, rethinking my Christmas Day, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I first thought it was. Even if my parents, again, harassed me about when I’d be getting married and giving them grandchildren. They don’t seem to understand how at thirty, not only am I not married, I don’t want to be.

-DeAnne Evans

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