Works of Fiction and Memory.

I never write fiction anymore.
But here's something I came up with. Is it taken from real life? Sure, some of it is. I tried to tweak it some while making a fine balance between fictional and real.
This is going to take some practice.
Andy Sturm wants to write a novel. I've wanted to write a novel for...years. But now I'm inspired to really start on it.

So here's random schtuff that came to me. Here goes nothing. I hope it sparks good things.

--

He didn't know when it started. It might've been the night they were both a little frazzled and jittery (for different reasons), lights dancing off her hair. God, he couldn't take his eyes off her hair.

It might've started a week later, or two weeks. How long has he known her? It feels like they should've met a long time ago.
So why now? Why her? And why wasn't he stopping all that he was feeling deep within his heart's core?

He found himself trusting her with things he hardly shared with anyone. His dysfunctional mother, his phenomenal father, how he truly viewed himself as a person. He noticed how she hardly said a word as they walked, but listened carefully. It seemed like she was taking every word he said and letting them roll around in her heart, experiencing all the pain and triumph word for word.

And here they were now, on her sofa, watching a movie that he couldn't find himself focusing on. His arm had somehow wrapped itself around her, her head now nestled in the crook of his neck. Her hair smelled like sunshine and fresh air.

The world began to fall away. His logic fell away, that part of his mind that says "Wait a minute" at times like this. It disappeared into oblivion. All he knew was his heart (which was beating very fast), and her presence next to him.

This is right.

Her head suddenly turned in his general direction, and his head dipped a little. He could ever-so-faintly feel her lips. The tension was there. It was almost unbearable...the electricity was insane.

He felt her inch closer to him, a little doubtful, testing to see if this was real. A little more, a little closer yet. What was going on? All was focused on the way her lips opened slightly, her head tilting to the side just so...

The few moments following seemed to fit the description of "forever." No - not even that. It was like time simply ceased to function. When her head found its way to the crook of his neck again, he felt logic trying to crawl its way back in.

What the hell? it asked.
Yes, he agreed. What the hell, indeed.
Why did this feel so right? Why did it feel like he had kissed her before? And why was he wishing to do it again?

The world ceased to exist again soon after those thoughts flew. He became one with the air, his mind away but his heart ablaze. With each kiss that trailed down her neck, he became even more lost.

He found himself whispering something to her, and her replying with a voice soft as a breeze. His hand arose to her breast, cupping it gently, every moment like a poem. Upon that initial touch, he considered himself finished. He was gone.

Later, he awoke with his head on her chest. Her heart beat steadily with slumber. Holding her hand in his, he touched the callouses on her fingertips with his thumb. He kissed each callous lightly, so he wouldn't wake her up.

He soon slipped back into sleep, himself, his cheek grazing the soft fabric of her thin sweater. He wanted to memorize the feel of her, in case this never happened again.

--

And it never did happen again.

Only after months of memory-dreams and rearranging her mind throughout the day was she able to let herself reflect upon that day again.

It was quite a feat, really, to be able to remember it all without a trace of negativity. She could not remember anything beyond touch, or the scent of fresh detergent on his shirt that was soft to the touch. If she made herself be perfectly still...and close her eyes...she could recall the energy burning in the eternal seconds before his mouth enfolded hers, testing the waters while still not backing down. She could still feel his hand tracing the outline of her face, holding it close, and the gentle agressiveness of him biting her neck that one time.

It was a relief, to remember it all without crying or feeling a little sick to her stomach. It was so much better to regard it as a happy day rather than a day consumed by "what-ifs" and mixed signals from that day forward (yes...no...someday?).

But she couldn't help but think "what if" sometimes. In fact, "sometimes" didn't suffice. She always wondered "what if."

And she always wondered if he remembered that day...and if he did, was it anything like she remembered it?