I long for her touch. Her long slender fingers slid through my sides, devouring pleasure in my smoothness. The touch was always different according to her moods. Writers are moody people. They almost live the characters they write about. She is one hell of a writer. She fiddled with me all through her writing process. She emptied me when she had deadlines.
I could guess what she was writing from the way she held me. When her touch was light and relaxed it was time for romance; when her grip was tight she was in a murderous mood and when I felt a shiver down my body to my small hinges – it was time for erotica.
I was her toy while she waited outside publishers offices.
That day as she fiddled with me waiting outside a door, I knew we were in the wrong place. It was a clinic.
That night she broke my heart. She just dumped me in the middle of nowhere. Actually this nowhere is her trunk with all sorts of clutter. I am pushed and shoved inside this dark wooden box and all this causes scratches on my body. My relation with her reminds me of a song I heard when I lay besides her laptop as she caressed me with her hands –
“I used to be your love,
And now I am your, used to be
Outsider … that’s me.”
Some guy called Cliff Richards sung it. Was she giving me a hint by playing this song again and again?
Alas, it is too late to ponder. She has quit smoking and I her favourite cigarette case, locked in this dark alley of her trunk, spin the words of “My Love Story with a Writer!”