Is this how we say goodbye?

In the time since I entered the blogosphere, I have noted more instances of synchronicity than in all the previous years of my life combined. I'd go into more detail, but... well--no, I won't. We're just going to call January 16th Kit Kat Day at JillWrites and move along to today's feature presentation...

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jillwrites is beyond thrilled to host a guest blogger today, a writer i have admired since i first encountered her work, and the author of one of my favorite pieces of work to grace the blogosphere--kat of i hate kit kats. which has unfortunately been retired. which is why, after a delightful catch-up chat this afternoon, i have the distinct pleasure of presenting to you, dear readers, kat's most recent work, "Is this how we say goodbye?" i love it; i love her; we disagree on the beauty of kit kats, but she's totally hot.

so without further ado... all work below, including the photo, is copyright kat. please delurk and welcome her.

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Is this how we say goodbye?


She brushes fingertips unsure across the keyboard, h . . . i . . . b . . . r . . . backspace, backspace, backspace, backspace, sighs at another failed beginning. It’s not as if she has lost the will to communicate, nor the uneasy longing engendered by his withdrawal. It’s that she has lost him somehow, that with the sobriety of another year passed she ceased to exist.

This is how it starts; she well knows this terrain. Soon enough she will be nothing more than a bitter mistake, a drunken indiscretion on his part. But if only she could find the perfect thing to say, they could turn back, together, to that vast field of gold where they once frolicked as children. If only she could take a step in the right direction they could hold each other once more in air dry despite stormy skies.

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He sits in boxer briefs with his back to her, desk curiously configured against the wall in the darkened room. He feigns occupation, busily clicking and typing, eyes presumably darting back and across the glowing screen though she cannot know for sure.

Come to bed, she admonishes, abandoned once again beneath crisp white linens.

In a minute, in a minute, he replies softly, knowing that in a minute she will drift into a heavy sleep, dreamless. She will have left him, and come morning in clear conscience he’ll be able to break her heart and call it love.

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Tiny scratches decorate her wrists, penance meted out by blackberry brambles for grabbing that which ought not to be taken. In lust her lips and fingertips are stained red, the dye flowing like streams along the tiny ridges of her hand, spreading and swirling, an indelible record of her transgression. She reaches for another juicy berry, only to find the branches picked clean in greed. She slinks away guiltily, hides beneath the dense foliage of a gardenia bush heavy with the scent of a thousand waxy petals.

This is how I love you, six of seven deadly sins and only one virtue with which to save myself, too proud not to be angry, too generous not to give you everything I’ve no right to give. Broken on the wheel, smothered in fire and brimstone, this is how badly I want you.

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We were two coin tosses from hopping on a flight to London this coming Thursday.

This part is true.