Posting other people’s stories makes me very happy.
By Joanne Taylor
“And how exactly did you meet your ex-wife?” It was a question to which the new wife cringed.
The man’s voice until then had been clipped. Curt. It warmed up the more he spoke until it was like liquid honey, cloying and intense.
“We sat next to each other on the train as I remember it. I was staring with passion at this Icelandic blonde, the kind with high cheekbones and piercing eyes who favours chunky sweaters knitted in gray and Hunter boots. The ones that prefer fog over sun and enjoy long walks through dense forests and often own Alaskan Malamutes or huskies with eyes that match theirs. She was utterly unapproachable, certainly didn’t notice the scruffy young man I was, and was typing ridiculously fast into her laptop with a certain intensity that gave me chills.
“I was focusing on a clever way to introduce myself, to make an impressions, you know, a favourable one, as we only had an hour or so left before reaching our destination. I had little hope, you understand, but I was determined to try making conversation.
“And that’s when it happened. Somehow or other a jet-black haired, red lipped storm blew into my life—right into my lap. She tripped on top of me and elbowed me very fiercely in the process. She yelled at me, me who was sitting so innocently. Ha. I truly felt in the wrong. She demanded a drink, for she saw I had a bottle peeking out of my very scruffy, like me, backpack. How could I say no? I certainly wouldn’t have dared. Her eyes flashed dark and angry and she ordered me to move. I did as I was commanded. She took my seat and waited, very impatiently I might add, for a drink. What can I say?
“The icy blonde fell away instantly and was replaced by a passionate, red blooded, Mexican artiste. The rest, as one tends to say, is history.”