When Women Write...

“Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country...” - Anon

By Patrick Alcatraz

Editor

TAOS, New Mexico - In the many nights he had been with her, rough sundowns and lovely evenings, he had always thought she was sort of special, not in a wild and fantastic way, but more in a clear scene that forever brought her to him aboard what he thought was a celestial cloud. Most of his women had come from the world of the mediocre, lasses with asses, and little else. When someone at a party had asked him what he looked for in a woman, he said: "Sparks...coming off the brain, not the crotch." And then he'd met Marcelline.

"I would like you to write me a two-page love letter," she'd instructed at the end of their first date, which, as it turned out, had been to an outdoor dance at someone's ranch. "If you move me with your words and writing, then we may be able to proceed." Proceeding threw images of gung-ho love all across his brain. She had, he could see, the legs and breasts to give him a tumble. "I can do that," he'd said.

Three days later, when he walked up to her front door, he knocked and then knocked again. He got no answer. A peek inside through one of the windows told him she was not home. He took his assignment and slipped it in the mail slot. He could wait on the grade. He could wait. It wasn't something he was used to with women. They usually took him at face-value and either fucked him or told him they had better things to do. Life, was his reasoning, came by way of the 50-50 proposition. He turned and walked back to his truck. Then, he drove to Tiny's Lounge and ambled in to hear a song by .38 Special he liked. The bar was empty, and he drew on a line his old man had always told him about empty bars: "Drinking alone ain't you, son." Nope. And so he was glad when an old guy and his old lady walked in, laughing as if their government check had come in on time.

The afternoon moved along. He was about to drop his boots to the floor and head on somewhere else when his cellphone rang that familiar message tone. He flipped it open to see: "I like the way you think, but your grammar is pitiful..."

He read it again, wondering if an immediate reply was in order.

Nope, it wasn't.

A mile down the old road, he reached for his phone and poked at her number. Saying it would be more his style. He waited on her to pick up, heard her educated voice in full-power, and then said: "Tell me this: If I told you my dick is a bit crooked, to the left and not exactly your normal tube-like thing, would you wonder about the fucking you'd get from me?"

"Touche," she shot back...

- 30 -