like i'm in the way
Title: Like I'm In The Way (2/?)
Originally Posted: Never; written 07/09/2005
Fandom: None- original fiction
Pairing: None
Rating: K
Summary: About a girl
He writes her little notes on any scraps of paper he can find. Just little “thinking of you” type thoughts scribbled in whatever ink or ink-like substance was available at the time, on whatever document he can get his hands on. In the grocer’s, he tears a deposit slip out of the back of his under-used checkbook and uses the pen that’s chained to the counter to tell her he couldn’t decide between Honey Nut and regular Cheerios so he got both. On the back of the ticket he gets from the dry cleaners, with a pen from the glove compartment that’s not quite out of ink so that the letters fade in and out of legibility he jots down a few lyrics from a Cake song that was on the radio when he got back in the car. On a plastic bag from a drugstore purchase he scrawls in smeared letters from an errant yellow highlighter found underneath the passenger seat that he loves her. These tokens are always left for her to find, never given directly to her. She supposes he feels foolish enough writing sappy messages on receipts and junk mail, and perhaps somehow believes that if she comes upon these sentiments without any acknowledgement of them from him, it makes him something more of a man. At the beginning she found these hurried love-letters sweet. In the beginning she found everything sweet. Now she feels a little embarrassed whenever she discovers his sharp, small handwriting hiding in the corners of things she’s about to throw away. She feels guilty that she can give him nothing in return. She feels guiltier that she wants to give him nothing in return. Her justification is that these notes come unbidden-she certainly never asked him to write these things for her. They’ve never even spoken of them. It has always just been A Given: he writes, she reads. If he’s ever wished for any sort of reply, he’s kept it to himself. These days she wonders if the little notes are written sincerely or just out of habit. But she knows that it is only she for whom any sort of sentiment feels forced. She knows this because no matter what, his scribble still turns up in the oddest of places: on the pages of clothing catalogs, on months-old, discarded comics from his Far Side daily calendar, between editorials in the morning newspaper. His handwritten thoughts stare up at her from the strangest places and as always, as usual, she never knows quite how to respond.
Originally Posted: Never; written 07/09/2005
Fandom: None- original fiction
Pairing: None
Rating: K
Summary: About a girl
He writes her little notes on any scraps of paper he can find. Just little “thinking of you” type thoughts scribbled in whatever ink or ink-like substance was available at the time, on whatever document he can get his hands on. In the grocer’s, he tears a deposit slip out of the back of his under-used checkbook and uses the pen that’s chained to the counter to tell her he couldn’t decide between Honey Nut and regular Cheerios so he got both. On the back of the ticket he gets from the dry cleaners, with a pen from the glove compartment that’s not quite out of ink so that the letters fade in and out of legibility he jots down a few lyrics from a Cake song that was on the radio when he got back in the car. On a plastic bag from a drugstore purchase he scrawls in smeared letters from an errant yellow highlighter found underneath the passenger seat that he loves her. These tokens are always left for her to find, never given directly to her. She supposes he feels foolish enough writing sappy messages on receipts and junk mail, and perhaps somehow believes that if she comes upon these sentiments without any acknowledgement of them from him, it makes him something more of a man. At the beginning she found these hurried love-letters sweet. In the beginning she found everything sweet. Now she feels a little embarrassed whenever she discovers his sharp, small handwriting hiding in the corners of things she’s about to throw away. She feels guilty that she can give him nothing in return. She feels guiltier that she wants to give him nothing in return. Her justification is that these notes come unbidden-she certainly never asked him to write these things for her. They’ve never even spoken of them. It has always just been A Given: he writes, she reads. If he’s ever wished for any sort of reply, he’s kept it to himself. These days she wonders if the little notes are written sincerely or just out of habit. But she knows that it is only she for whom any sort of sentiment feels forced. She knows this because no matter what, his scribble still turns up in the oddest of places: on the pages of clothing catalogs, on months-old, discarded comics from his Far Side daily calendar, between editorials in the morning newspaper. His handwritten thoughts stare up at her from the strangest places and as always, as usual, she never knows quite how to respond.