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fajrdrakoI wrote this, pretty much by accident an on impulse, in a reply in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
broadwriting's journal this morning. Just a ficlet.
- - -
Correspondence
In the light of only one flickering lamp, Buckingham picked up his pen. He hesitated. It was late; he should do this in the morning.
But if he left it till the morning, he knew he would never do it at all. Last night he had postponed the task, and the night before. Each night he had been left awake in bed, staring at the unseen ceiling, aroused, distracted, angry, lonely, thinking not of his sweet wife beside him but of a dark-haired and beautiful man, who was not there. Who should not be there. Someone he should by all rights never see again.
He dipped the pen in the ink pot. If he hesitated now, the ink would dry, so he wrote quickly.
Dear Ned -
He stopped. He was no writer. He was not Shakespeare, or Pope, or even Mr. Pepys with his faithful journal entries. He was someone completely different, to whom the right words came awkwardly if at all.
He had learned, over the years, to be direct.
He wrote, Meet me. I cannot bear this.
He looked at it for a while, then wrote below that, I need you as ever.
He blotted it carefully. He considered throwing it into the fire.
Then carefully, he folded it, put it in an envelope, and sealed it with red wax. He would send it to the theatre in the morning.
The die was cast.
broadwriting's journal this morning. Just a ficlet.- - -
Correspondence
In the light of only one flickering lamp, Buckingham picked up his pen. He hesitated. It was late; he should do this in the morning.
But if he left it till the morning, he knew he would never do it at all. Last night he had postponed the task, and the night before. Each night he had been left awake in bed, staring at the unseen ceiling, aroused, distracted, angry, lonely, thinking not of his sweet wife beside him but of a dark-haired and beautiful man, who was not there. Who should not be there. Someone he should by all rights never see again.
He dipped the pen in the ink pot. If he hesitated now, the ink would dry, so he wrote quickly.
Dear Ned -
He stopped. He was no writer. He was not Shakespeare, or Pope, or even Mr. Pepys with his faithful journal entries. He was someone completely different, to whom the right words came awkwardly if at all.
He had learned, over the years, to be direct.
He wrote, Meet me. I cannot bear this.
He looked at it for a while, then wrote below that, I need you as ever.
He blotted it carefully. He considered throwing it into the fire.
Then carefully, he folded it, put it in an envelope, and sealed it with red wax. He would send it to the theatre in the morning.
The die was cast.
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no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 09:45 am (UTC)May I recommend
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 09:49 am (UTC)Do you think I should post this at stagebeauty_fic? It's pretty insubstantial....