These short little exercises are called Flash Fiction, thank you- I hate the damned term “drabble”.
here’s one, written christ-more than ten years ago!
Warnings= embarrassing romantic dreamer tendencies, no more
I played a song that was sexier than I had intended. I was overtaken by the incohate, inexplicable conviction that somewhere out there my soulmate waited- someone perfectly attuned to my every need, someone so in need of me that every move I made would only be right. Pretty embarrasing when (and perhaps this is part of the feeling) I am about to turn thirty nine. I know damn well that perfection exists. Often. And for two or three minutes at a stretch. What could I do? I turned to my girlfriend and buried myself between her breasts, knocking over my Jack on the rocks in the process.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, but I couldn’t explain in a bar. The bartender came over to swab up the mess. “Want another?” she asked, but I figured I’d better not. I saw smoky bodies in a room lit by moon and fire, and one of them was me, and one of them was not the woman I am with. In theory this is okay, but I don’t remember the last time I’ve called on that option.
She called me the next day. “What the hell was that all about?” she wanted to know. “You were acting pretty wierd there. You had me scared, a little.”
“Weell…” I probably sounded a little whiney; “You know I played that song… I sort of fell into lust. With someone that doesn’t exist. I do this once in a while, you know? All I can think of is getting into the car and driving off till I find them. And of course I can’t, I have a family and responsibilities. But the perfect lover is gonna go to someone else, and she won’t ever be perfectly satisfied, either, because she should be with me, and she’s just making do.”
There was a silence. “Does that make sense?” I asked. “I mean, of course it doesn’t make sense, but do you understand what I just said?”
“You have your hubby” she said.
“That’s right” I said.
“And you have me…” she said.
“You’re getting tired of me” she said comfortably. “You’re getting ready to put the ad in the personals, aren’t you?”
“And die of exhaustion?”
“You arent going to go out and look for this perfect woman?” She sounded amazed. I snorted.
“Oh, please. Perfection is always a wild goose chase, you know that. And besides… Melissa Etheridge is married.”
I’m getting used to these long silences. “You don’t get Melissa Etheridge” she said at last.
“I get Melissa Etheridge.”