You all know my penchant for borrowing ideas from songs…Heard
this one in the car this afternoon, and my muse INSISTED I couldn’t go to
bed until I wrote it. The link to the lyrics is at the bottom of the
story.
Once again, This is a work of fiction, born of my own brain,
is owned by me, and as far as I can tell, this is pretty unsquickable…so
I’m going to forgo my usual, don’t read blah blah. Reposting only on request.
Have fun!
Dryad
****************************************************************************
Mrs. Steven Rudy
By Dryad
The song ended. She turned off the radio and sat in stunned silence.
She knew it was a message; hell, he’d used her real name. It didn’t
matter; her friend knew her husband never listened to that “shit-kicker”
music. Names wouldn’t matter.
Damn him anyway. He was off again. Fucking that damn bimbo of
an “assistant” of his. Anyone who wore skirts that short should be arrested.
Where was it this time? Florida? Cancun? She couldn’t even keep track anymore.
A few lyrics came back to haunt her.
Imagination, infatuation,
I’m what she deserves
I wonder if she thinks about me,
the way I think about her
Didn’t he know? She was awed that he had realized his dream; of
course she was proud of him. So many times she’d listen as he worked
out an arrangement, or help find rhymes.
She thought of him. Through thick and thin, he was always there
for her. Even in the middle of the night; perhaps even took him for granted.
She teased him, tempted him any way she could think of.
But she never thought led anywhere. She smiled wistfully.
A gentleman, even then. Never took advantage no matter how vulnerable
she was. Never touched her, never saying what he thought of her husband.
She chuckled, “Ugly”? He couldn’t even say anything meaner. She shook her
head, then straightened. She did deserve better.
She looked around the lonely, loveless house then pulled together
a few belongings and childhood trinkets; a quilt her mother made her, a childhood
diary, her grandmother’s locket.
He would expect her to call, just when. He knew she'd hear his
song.
She pulled his brand off her finger, with a note:
“Hope it fits your ‘assistant’.”
Then she picked up the phone.
“Mrs. Steven Rudy” Mark McGuinn (yes, it’s a real song)
http://www.poplyrics.net/waiguo/markmcguinn/001.htm
Copyright Dryad (2003) [email protected]