A post by Teri Skultety, all night long, All The Bright Young Things At The Last Picture Show, Art, Fiction, Flannel, flash fiction, Freedom, Intelligence is sexy., love letters, Resilience and The Modern Woman, Romance

Teller of Stories.

        They want the words. You want the words.
I stay up all night, many nights, and don’t much care, who knows it. Chasing things down, or drinking tea, looking for songs to put me into some kind of state of mind, the soundtrack for the life in my head. The soundtrack of the life of the story. They want me to talk about sex, because I don’t talk about it. To talk about subtlety, when really, the subtle do not talk about it much at all, not in public. The subtle are the ones you know who know what they are doing, or so they say. They want me to be Catherine Deneuve. Sit at the end of the bar in a pencil skirt, spikey heels, not say too much with my words, but still everything with my mouth, with my eyes. I can do that, though I am more like Carol Lombard, Jessica Lange, Ellen Barkin, a different kind of blonde. I can put on those clothes and sit at the end of the bar but you’re not sure what I might say, or what I might do. You don’t like that you like it, but you do. You know if I come after you, it’s not Grace Kelly or Kim Novak, well, maybe Kim Novak, in some Hitchcock dream of cool and aloof. Maybe you know, if I come after you, it is sincere. I’m that kind of woman.

My hangovers are sexy.

When I’m too skinny, you want to feed me. When my hips become rounder, you just want to hang on. When I sit at the kitchen table wearing one of your flannel shirts, one leg bent at the knee, that foot tucked under me, my hand under my chin leaning on my elbow, looking at you, you know what’s for dinner. You’re ordering take-out and we are laying on the floor watching movies all night. Most of the night. Call it writing. Call it research. 

We get a lot of work done.

      You know too, don’t you? How much of this is true, and how much of it isn’t. They want me to be reserved but didn’t understand my resistance to being tamed wasn’t that, only, I hadn’t yet found the man who could do it. The man who doesn’t want me to be tamed or changed, who only wants me as…me. I didn’t know that either, until you. Neighborhood Hot Mom, now more mature. Powder Keg Housewife, now more aware.  Alone in our bedroom, light that fuse.  Fantasy Writer/ Writer of …But you don’t want anyone thinking about me like that now, do you? Because you know I’m really a Good Woman, the kind you don’t want to share, the kind that doesn’t want to be shared. A “One Man” Woman. 
You know that nobody’s hangovers are sexy.

You understand my lies. And that is a kind of truth that cannot be told, only…known.

       I stay up all night, many nights, but I don’t think I would, as much… it seems to me, the thought of crawling underneath the quilt with you is nearly everything. Of course, people do crawl under quilts during the day. And I think, what would we do to stay away from each other just enough to keep this alive? To keep each other twisted up, just enough…and somehow that is another story. At this moment when I should be bolder than bold and letting fly, I am thinking long term. Not wanting to give anything away, that I might save for you, for us, because this exhibitionism is more personal than anyone else could ever know. It is raining here. I’ll sleep. This dream has already leaked onto the page.


Maybe I’m the me that only you know.