You crave her with a sexual desire so powerful you want to chew on your wrist.
Anger so palpable you want to grab the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white hot and scream until your throat burns. Obsession that invades your body, mind, soul to the point you can’t do anything without thinking about her: swapping laundry and you want her there, putting gas in the car and you want her in the passenger seat, pour yourself wine in a glass that’d fit perfectly in her slender fingers and you want her holding it.
Jealousy like a fever rampaging over you, wondering what it is that he has that you don’t,
what he says that mesmerizes her, how it is he jokes that makes her playfully punch his arm while giggling. And you stare, your nuts numb, your mouth agape, wondering why he’s seeing her radiant smile and you are not,
Being ditched, jilted, rejected – abandoned? – is worse than emotion. It’s a shameful madness that bores into every pore of your body, that takes the joy out of the commonplace, that makes you grind your teeth, ignore your loved-ones, snap at your friends, and go medieval on your enemies.
Has it ever happened to you?
Can you dredge up those emotions from the depths of long-lost suppressed memories? Can you evoke the emotional onslaught of those first few days, weeks,
after she went the other way? After you saw her stand on her tiptoes and kiss him gently on the lips? After you saw her get in his car? After she told you those wretched words, “It’s not about you.”
These bile feelings rose in the wake of an early morning panic attack that hit me like a hammer to the thumbnail. And I began to wonder if I could get them into words before the memory faded away so that I was no longer living in the past.
Have I succeeded? Please tell me. All writers need to know whether they’re conjuring emotion.
See, I’ve been talking about time travel a lot lately. Sometimes, though, it’s best if somebody takes the keys to your time machine, because the past is not prologue; sometimes the past is an open wound.
Next time, I promise more humor.
Peace, from Keith
P.S. I’m a guy, so the pronouns are written from my point-of-view. Though I’ve never been a woman, or even played one on TV, I suspect the feelings are the same.
Copyright © 2012 Alan Keith Parker, all rights reserved.