#54

he was getting ready to leave. the one before him left too. and the one before that.
she watched him pack and her heart ached. it always happened this way with her. the initial attraction, the first date, the part where she allowed herself to get a little too attached. then came the job opportunity. a "can't pass it up" deal. travel.
every one of them had been right, of course. they had all been fantastic opportunities, chances she would take, if she was in their shoes.
she was never in their shoes.
again today, she stood watching him, bent over the bed, clumsily folding a shirt.
loneliness had settled in before, but loneliness for company. any company at all.

today it was something else.

today it was abandonment.

#53

i know i was never literary enough for you. it didn't matter how much schooling i had, it never mattered how many books i bought and devoured and dogeared and underlined.
moby dick sat on my nightstand for two months and it was drudgery. the whole book went downhill right after "call me ishmael" but i read it, i read it because you love it.
maybe Hearst was the original journalistic genious/asshole, but someone had to invent yellow journalism. but you always stick to the facts now, don't you?
don't think i cannot see you roll your eyes when i order a medium latte; i never could remember "grande." they all sound big to me.
so i guess i'll leave you to your trendy scarves and square framed glasses. you were always more passionate about pointing out every pretentious remark of your self-proclaimed nemeses than what might be happening in my heart.

#52

the first time he saw her, she looked like the heroine on an 80's B-list movie poster. Wavy, glossy hair, red lips perpetually holding a cigarette, curves like a mountain pass. her wide-eyed gaze passed over him, as expected.
he knew the type- wild and seductive, with just enough morality to make a man beg. to make him crazy.

he'd had clients like this his whole life. jealous lovers, rich playboys who live to be wanted. they'll wine and dine every fish in the sea, but there's always one. always one who he can't bear to see with anyone else.
that's when he gets the call. he always agrees because the money's good. half now, half when the job's done.

she was in his sight now, and for the first time he thought twice before pulling the trigger.

#51

the old house creaked as she leaned against the front porch post, chipped paint, which had been crisp white, now weathered through. hair fell in long curling pieces of ribbon around her face. skinny now, almost gaunt, yet still beautiful.
she finished the last drag of her cigarette and he photographed her in colorless tones.
black and white would not fade as she had.

#50 (see, i made up for the double forty-six)

he stared at the painting, wondering. each brush stroke placed so carefully on the canvas, and he was offput by it's unsettling aesthetic.
even so, it was intriguing. strangely alluring.
and he wondered about the artist, a woman. would he view this differently if it were a man? would it cease to fit within his narrow mindset? if it were his sister, his girlfriend, wife or daughter, would he find it so intimidating?

so...

I wrote 2 different #46's.

and i am too lazy to change it.

over and out.

#48

he'd done it again. somehow managed to rile up the status quo. his mother always said not to talk politics or religion unless you're ready for a debate. probably a lot of mothers said the same thing.
there just wasn't much very interesting to him aside from those two subjects.
the problem wasn't that people were against delving in to the subject matter. it was that people only want to discuss it if you agree with their opinions.
in his head, he could be swayed by a well-presented arguement. he just couldn't help playing devil's advocate or, more often, setting up such a satirical viewpoint that none could argue for lack of logic.
he didn't intent to make enemies. his entire social life reflected Poe's law. which is to say, no one ever invited him to a second party.