OriginalFic: "Note"
Jun. 13th, 2010 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Note
Length: 1250 words
Notes: Rewrote it from an old idea in an attempt to make it slightly less surreal. Granted, it's probably still surreal
Peter has folded the note again, corner to corner, the edges meeting down to the millimetre. He has straightened out the slightly askew crease the note had come with even if he couldn't erase the previous mark in the paper. Peter traces the square of paper, turns it corner to corner to corner on his desk, then holds it up to the light, squinting at the ink inside. The sharp fold gives the note a bit of style, a bit of countenance, certainly. Now, this bit of paper is screaming proper at Peter, not lurid, and Peter is nodding at it. To be honest, if he was honest, for this one moment, he'd eaten the luridness and cheap little words right up as he'd read it.
The doors at the far side of the open-plan office space open, close again, then steps. Enter Tanya. Tanya doesn't understand sharp folds and creases. Tanya understands passion and curves and i's dotted with small hearts and three xxx's in the bottom corner. Tanya doesn't understand Peter either, but that had never deterred anyone foolishly in love, and it hadn't deterred Tanya. She'd met Peter three years ago, two years that she'd fallen in love, one year since she'd started sleeping with him after an office do. In the office he can never seem to remember the nights spent together.
As Tanya walks to the desk, Peter looks up from the note, the new and improved version. Dawn is rising over Glasgow and gives the office an orange glow. Tanya is wearing a skirt which Peter likes and Peter is wearing a suit that Tanya likes, too.
"You got it," Tanya says. She stops in front of the desk, fingers clenching into the fabric of her skirt.
Peter likes a woman good at being a school girl. He glances down at the note and smiles (words have never been that tasty) puts the note flat on the table and pushes. The paper skids across the desk, and Tanya catches it with index and middle finger before it sails off the surface where it would meet feet and gum wrappers. The cleaning personnel doesn't come in until seven and Peter has had a long night feasting on the note, and a bit of work here and there.
Tanya slides her fingers around that new dent in the paper square she'd left on his desk, the extra sharp crease she doesn't quite remember. She presses a thumb nail to the paper square. It leaves a mark that crosses the ruler's dent, forging a breach in the defenses. She clears her throat. "You got it," Tanya says again, and Peter thinks she sounds a bit like a broken record. He's getting bored already. Tanya rubs at the new crease in the note and brushes down her skirt. Surely it would be his turn to say something. The orange glow of the Glasgow dawn shines through the note, and it looks a lot emptier to her as she's holding it (holding it again).
She looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "You got it," she says and holds up the note. "You read it."
If he was any kind of romantic he'd memorized it. Being the realist he is he should have made a copy, but potential blackmail is too old-school and dirty when you are running a clean office.
"I didn't read it," Peter says with a nod of confidence. Ts crossed and Is dotted cling to the corner of his lips, the round-bellied Ds and slimmer Ps slide into the mouth, disappearing half with a swipe off the tongue, that he takes carelessly as he pushes his gum around from one side of his mouth to the other. He brings a thumb to his lips and sucks 'meaning' and 'trust' up where the ink must have smeared, swallows.
Tanya knows men and she knows lies, so she holds up the note again. It has his name in pretty cursive on the front. "But-"
"Honest." Peter holds up his fingers in pinkie swear. His tongue finds 'forever' on his upper lip, catches it for food. Lips spread into a smile, but the shoe taps the lie like Vivaldi's Summer in Scotland's mid-December. "Privacy and all."
Tanya brushes the emptied note with a thumb, and she should have listened to her mum and gone down to London, not accepted the first best. Glasgow won't make you happy, she'd said, and Tanya looked at Peter, and well, he was all that Glasgow was. All that could make her happy.
"Thought you'd give it back?" she asks.
"Yeah. So you have it." He spreads his arms in generous gesture. "No need to mention it." He winks. She squirms for him, and she looks like she'd hoped he'd take her somewhere with wine and a nice meal and soft sheets. It tickles pleasure in his belly, her wide open eyes and pretty innocence and dreams, and there, that hint of pain struggling into her eyes.
"Thanks." Tanya doesn't know what to do with the note. Her skirt has no pockets and she doesn't want to leave this where anyone could see it. She glances up and Peter is smiling. 'Love' dribbles from Peter's chin, he swipes at it with the back of his hand, and cleans his hand on cheap trousers, half a laugh at the sticky black something, not easily identified, only bothersome.
Peter leans back in his chair, squinting at the sun. The best hours of the day are the quiet mornings and a pretty woman willing to give herself to him. "I proposed to Emily." He gives a laugh and scratches at 'you' and 'I' on his left cheek and his right, until the reddened skin has soaked up the letters. "Figured- it was time. Just now. I called her." He smiles, broad and empty. Letters stick to his white teeth, and even his tongue doesn't clean them off completely. "Just thought you might want know."
"Right."
"You are invited."
"Right."
Pause. Tiny, small delicious pause as Tanya crumbles for him. Peter had had hopes but sooner or later they all had given him letters like they were still in school and he likes to let them down easy, offer them a way out, and he still carried their words in him, delicious.
He scratches at his neck, rubs his cheek on his shoulder, runs a hand through his hair, then thrusts it into the pocket of his trousers. "That's all really. Just figured I'd tell you. I'll see you later." He nods, grins, turns on his heel and leaves. 'Please' rides just below his hairline, but then he swaps at it, killing the fly.
'Love' comes loose on the turn, not a great fight to cling to the trousers, and sails to lie amongst the gum wrappers where anyone could step on it. The door falls into the lock, taking air and Scotland's mid-December lies.
Tanya looks out the window and wishes she was anywhere else, standing there like a stupid little girl with a love letter. She unfolds the note and traces the string of letters on the bottom, slides her thumb over it, picks them up. Her tongue traces every line, every squiggle and low curve and dot. The words melt on the tongue and and the note mourns the loss of 'you' and 'I' and 'forever'.
The words are hers again, and now they won't be so easily given.
Length: 1250 words
Notes: Rewrote it from an old idea in an attempt to make it slightly less surreal. Granted, it's probably still surreal
Peter has folded the note again, corner to corner, the edges meeting down to the millimetre. He has straightened out the slightly askew crease the note had come with even if he couldn't erase the previous mark in the paper. Peter traces the square of paper, turns it corner to corner to corner on his desk, then holds it up to the light, squinting at the ink inside. The sharp fold gives the note a bit of style, a bit of countenance, certainly. Now, this bit of paper is screaming proper at Peter, not lurid, and Peter is nodding at it. To be honest, if he was honest, for this one moment, he'd eaten the luridness and cheap little words right up as he'd read it.
The doors at the far side of the open-plan office space open, close again, then steps. Enter Tanya. Tanya doesn't understand sharp folds and creases. Tanya understands passion and curves and i's dotted with small hearts and three xxx's in the bottom corner. Tanya doesn't understand Peter either, but that had never deterred anyone foolishly in love, and it hadn't deterred Tanya. She'd met Peter three years ago, two years that she'd fallen in love, one year since she'd started sleeping with him after an office do. In the office he can never seem to remember the nights spent together.
As Tanya walks to the desk, Peter looks up from the note, the new and improved version. Dawn is rising over Glasgow and gives the office an orange glow. Tanya is wearing a skirt which Peter likes and Peter is wearing a suit that Tanya likes, too.
"You got it," Tanya says. She stops in front of the desk, fingers clenching into the fabric of her skirt.
Peter likes a woman good at being a school girl. He glances down at the note and smiles (words have never been that tasty) puts the note flat on the table and pushes. The paper skids across the desk, and Tanya catches it with index and middle finger before it sails off the surface where it would meet feet and gum wrappers. The cleaning personnel doesn't come in until seven and Peter has had a long night feasting on the note, and a bit of work here and there.
Tanya slides her fingers around that new dent in the paper square she'd left on his desk, the extra sharp crease she doesn't quite remember. She presses a thumb nail to the paper square. It leaves a mark that crosses the ruler's dent, forging a breach in the defenses. She clears her throat. "You got it," Tanya says again, and Peter thinks she sounds a bit like a broken record. He's getting bored already. Tanya rubs at the new crease in the note and brushes down her skirt. Surely it would be his turn to say something. The orange glow of the Glasgow dawn shines through the note, and it looks a lot emptier to her as she's holding it (holding it again).
She looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "You got it," she says and holds up the note. "You read it."
If he was any kind of romantic he'd memorized it. Being the realist he is he should have made a copy, but potential blackmail is too old-school and dirty when you are running a clean office.
"I didn't read it," Peter says with a nod of confidence. Ts crossed and Is dotted cling to the corner of his lips, the round-bellied Ds and slimmer Ps slide into the mouth, disappearing half with a swipe off the tongue, that he takes carelessly as he pushes his gum around from one side of his mouth to the other. He brings a thumb to his lips and sucks 'meaning' and 'trust' up where the ink must have smeared, swallows.
Tanya knows men and she knows lies, so she holds up the note again. It has his name in pretty cursive on the front. "But-"
"Honest." Peter holds up his fingers in pinkie swear. His tongue finds 'forever' on his upper lip, catches it for food. Lips spread into a smile, but the shoe taps the lie like Vivaldi's Summer in Scotland's mid-December. "Privacy and all."
Tanya brushes the emptied note with a thumb, and she should have listened to her mum and gone down to London, not accepted the first best. Glasgow won't make you happy, she'd said, and Tanya looked at Peter, and well, he was all that Glasgow was. All that could make her happy.
"Thought you'd give it back?" she asks.
"Yeah. So you have it." He spreads his arms in generous gesture. "No need to mention it." He winks. She squirms for him, and she looks like she'd hoped he'd take her somewhere with wine and a nice meal and soft sheets. It tickles pleasure in his belly, her wide open eyes and pretty innocence and dreams, and there, that hint of pain struggling into her eyes.
"Thanks." Tanya doesn't know what to do with the note. Her skirt has no pockets and she doesn't want to leave this where anyone could see it. She glances up and Peter is smiling. 'Love' dribbles from Peter's chin, he swipes at it with the back of his hand, and cleans his hand on cheap trousers, half a laugh at the sticky black something, not easily identified, only bothersome.
Peter leans back in his chair, squinting at the sun. The best hours of the day are the quiet mornings and a pretty woman willing to give herself to him. "I proposed to Emily." He gives a laugh and scratches at 'you' and 'I' on his left cheek and his right, until the reddened skin has soaked up the letters. "Figured- it was time. Just now. I called her." He smiles, broad and empty. Letters stick to his white teeth, and even his tongue doesn't clean them off completely. "Just thought you might want know."
"Right."
"You are invited."
"Right."
Pause. Tiny, small delicious pause as Tanya crumbles for him. Peter had had hopes but sooner or later they all had given him letters like they were still in school and he likes to let them down easy, offer them a way out, and he still carried their words in him, delicious.
He scratches at his neck, rubs his cheek on his shoulder, runs a hand through his hair, then thrusts it into the pocket of his trousers. "That's all really. Just figured I'd tell you. I'll see you later." He nods, grins, turns on his heel and leaves. 'Please' rides just below his hairline, but then he swaps at it, killing the fly.
'Love' comes loose on the turn, not a great fight to cling to the trousers, and sails to lie amongst the gum wrappers where anyone could step on it. The door falls into the lock, taking air and Scotland's mid-December lies.
Tanya looks out the window and wishes she was anywhere else, standing there like a stupid little girl with a love letter. She unfolds the note and traces the string of letters on the bottom, slides her thumb over it, picks them up. Her tongue traces every line, every squiggle and low curve and dot. The words melt on the tongue and and the note mourns the loss of 'you' and 'I' and 'forever'.
The words are hers again, and now they won't be so easily given.
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Date: 2010-06-14 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-14 07:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-14 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-14 07:49 am (UTC)