If you’re not a writer, you might assume that I was about to share how truly failed or dreadful I can be. Please don’t be disappointed now when I tell you that my character is in a short story I’m working on.
My character is a mystery to me. He is greying and fit, he stands by the beach and waits. I know his name, but I won’t spoil it for you as I do plan to finish this piece at some point. He smiles but he continues to be just out of reach for me.
Perhaps, I don’t know anyone quite like him and that is why he eludes me, he is shy about sharing his thoughts. He knows about wine though, and I see him swirl his current favourite malbec on a Friday night. His shirt has softened at the elbows and frayed on the collar and he’s been known to skip a stone while the sun sets. Then he’ll pick up his wine glass from the sand and walk back up to the screen door.
We don’t get enough time together, he and I. It's scary, because I think that he knows me better than I know him. We have to stop our day and sit quietly, each of us with our malbec, watching the clouds disappear to the west.
We've met at coffee shops and poured over our similarities. Had a few laughs over a brownie or two (I blame it on him), wine on a Friday night has shattered some beliefs we each have, once we get going. We even went on a weekend retreat once, no hanky-panky just straight up word work.
Notes in his handwriting keep showing up on my bedside table, on my kitchen counter and in my car, they all say the same thing. I’ve always gotten away with it and this time will be no different.
His presence is consuming me. He flits in and out of my mind like a new lover and we both know that what we need is time. One day soon, his eyes will not reflect me and I will not be reduced by the scent of outdoors on his skin.
That is the day I will find out why his wife disappeared and then write the next appropriate sentence.