An Afternoon Writing Exercise

            It’s a hot, autumn afternoon. I thought I’d stay cool inside and play around with words like I do sometimes. Here’s today’s scene, written on a whim.

            Frank ran. He was not a runner, but this day, he ran. His mind gave him no other choice for she had broken his heart.

            “It’s not you, Frank. It’s me. But it’s over.”

            She had been sitting at the kitchen table, slowly stirring a cup of hot tea when he stumbled onto the back porch and into the room at daybreak.

She had watched him lurch forward, gawky and unsure, from his pickup. A touch of nausea had gripped her.

The moment he gazed at her, at those ever-so-blue eyes, his heart fluttered. That was not unusual, but this time, something was different. Her hair, the color of dark chocolate, uncharacteristically hung in uncombed clumps to her shoulders, and her cheeks were blushed, but not with make-up . . . and her eyes? Had she been crying?

“Lydia?” he questioned before she said the words.

And then she had said them. It’s not you, Frank. It’s me. But it’s over.

“What are you saying?” He swallowed hard.

“Please don’t argue,” she pleaded. “I am simply done. Finished. I’ve wanted to tell you for awhile now.”

“Lydia?” he asked again. Any other words lodged in his throat. One hand clinched. Anger teased him.

“Go on now,” she said, the order issued on frozen crystals. “I mean it.”

“Lydia.” Frank inanely uttered her name once more.

He stared at her for a full minute, hearing the annoying pulse of his heartbeat reverberate in his ears. She looked down, unable to focus and unwilling to regard the man for one more second.  

“Go on now,” she muttered, “or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Frank knew his Lydia. She meant it. Though they had been companions, a couple, for well over a year, in recent weeks she had drawn away; her words had quieted, and her thoughts had been secreted away. Their moments together had grown tense and though he had become wary, he had not expected her sudden, stinging revelation.

Trembling slightly, he backed to the door, gripped it awkwardly, spun away down the stairs, and loped toward his truck. He passed it by though, and ran instead, sprinting down the lane for two miles. When at last he stopped, exhausted, he fell to his knees on the side of the road. He was spent, drained, and empty of lucid thought. Moments passed, and at last he grappled with the truth.

“She’s right,” he mumbled abjectly. It’s over and done . . . need to move on. It was as simple as that.