A story written in dialogue by Bellelettres 

 

 

 

THE OTHER LETTER

 

"Damn alarm clock! Oh, it's the telephone. Hello?"

"Frances, this is Lucille."

"Lucille? Hold on, Lucille. What time is it? What's wrong? Is Julie OK?"

"Sweet Sixteen is getting her beauty sleep. She needs it."

"Thanks for letting her stay over."

"Did I have a choice?"

"Since you put it that way, I won't inflict her on you again."

"You can bet your sweet life you won't. I found the letter you wrote my husband."

"My letters to my brother are between him and me. They're none of your business."

"It's my business in this case, you interfering bitch."

"Is that Julie's voice in the background? Put Julie on."

"Yes, she recognized you from my description... Julie, this is a private conversation...No, Uncle

Larry isn't up yet, but you'd better go get dressed if you want to ride in with him."

"I want to talk to Julie."

"Not until you've finished talking to me."

"Look, Lucille, I'm very sorry you read the letter, but I said all that I have to say in there. Larry

never should have married you. You're a self-serving chronic complainer hanging like a dark

cloud over a loving man who deserves a loving wife. I'm not going to apologize for bringing

them together."

"Bringing who together? Larry and the magazine editors? You mean it was your idea for him to

send out his little stories?"

"Oh, that letter. No, no. It was his idea. I can't think straight. I haven't had enough sleep. My

plane was two hours late, and I didn't get home until ...".

"For five years I've been trying to get him to forget about his little stories."

"I know, Lucille. You want him to bury his talent and devote his energy to climbing the

corporate ladder so you can shop at Neiman-Marcos and have a summer house on Cape Cod."

"This great talent that nobody sees but you. So out of the goodness of your heart, you offer him

the use of your return address to keep greedy old me from finding out that he's still wasting his

time. This makes me wonder what else have you have been cooking up behind my back with my

loving husband who deserves a loving ! ... Julie! Come talk to your mother."

"Lucille, wait --Lucille, come back here! Julie! Pick up the phone! Julie! Julie?"

"Mom?"

"Julie, what's happening?"

"She left the phone off the hook. I don't know where she went."

"I can't hear you."

"I'm whispering because I don't want her to hear me. Mom, she's crazy."

"Has she done anything violent?"

"Unless you call screaming violent. She found a letter from you last night and went ballistic.

Uncle Larry finally told her he had to get some sleep because he has an important meeting this

morning. That shut her up, but she was up all night prowling."

"Is anyone else in the house?"

"No, just us. Did you hear that? She's in their room banging drawers."

"Where are you?"

"The upstairs hall."

"Are you dressed?"

"Sure. I was on my way downstairs when I saw the phone off the hook. Did you hear that? It

sounded like the bed fell."

"Julie, listen carefully. Get out of the house now. Go straight to the drugstore over on 29th, and

I'll pick you up in 30 minutes. Julie, are you still there?"

"Let go of the phone, Julie. Go and tell your Uncle Larry to hurry up. He'll be late for work. Stop

whimpering. You'll go downstairs when you've done what I told you to do... Ah, Frances! So you

found him another woman. A woman like you. The next best thing to having him yourself."

"Lucille "

"I told Larry a long time ago that if he ever tried to toss me aside, I would kill him."

"Lucille, listen to me. That letter was a plot for a story. It's not about anything real."

"I can't kill you because you are not here. The sins of the mother will be visited on the daughter.

Listen. Do you hear Julie screaming? She must have opened the bedroom door."

 

---

Short Story by Belle

THE DARK DANCE OF LOVE

The first day of the conference had ended, and a man and a woman were having their third drink at the hotel bar.

"The first time I saw you, I thought, 'There's a man I'd like to have a conversation with," the woman said.

"The first time I saw you," the man said, "I thought, 'I'd like to see that hair spread out over a pillow.'"

"But you're another woman's husband."

"This is the twenty-first century," he said. "Don't tell me you're hung up on middle class morality."

"No. I've just lost my taste for being humiliated."

"What's humiliating about an affair? OK. Don't look at me like I'm a rapist. What's humiliating about two adults getting to know each other on all levels? It would be like a deep, deep friendship."

"You'd get up and go home, and I'd be left alone."

"You want a man to be a doggie, is that it? A full-time worshiper. A slave, at your beck and call. Where do women get these ideas?"

"From fairy tales. From our dreams. From the way we feel about love."

"Women think of love as slavery? Don't you find that sick?"

"Mutual slavery maybe. I always thought I could be a slave to a man I loved as long as he never tried to tell me what to do."

"You want him to be your slave?"

"No. I want him to be free. But I want him not to want anyone but me, so you're right in a way. I must want to enslave his mind."

"You want him to have free will as long as he uses it right?"

"Yeah, I guess. You don't think there's a middle ground?"

"Like where?"

"Like the place your wife is, for instance."

He frowned. "What do you know about my wife?"

"I don't know anything about your wife. There are infinite possibilities for your wife. One: You may not have a wife. You may wear that ring so you can always say afterward, 'Oops! Gotta get home to my wife.'"

"I've got a wife, all right, but I can tell you truthfully that I would never be in a hurry to leave you to get back to the Ice Queen."

"I see. That brings us to number two: The zing has gone out of your marriage, and she needs a rival to warm her up. I can picture your reconciliation scene after you arrange for her to catch us together so you can renounce me in front of her. I've heard that human sacrifice is a powerful aphrodisiac."

"Ouch!" He made a stricken face, then grinned. "When it comes to aphrodisiacs, you must be one of those women who think insult is a better one than flattery. I never liked that kind of woman before, but you're making me reconsider. You know, if it weren't for that 'come hither' look (which is still turned on, by the way), I would think you hate men."

Her smile disappeared. "I don't hate men. I just hate the way you act. I hate your lies. I hate your fundamental assumption that you have a right to take what you want. I hate the way you look at women and the way you cheat on women and the way you dispose of women when you're finished with us. Apart from that, I think you're terrific."

"Well, then. Good to get that cleared up. Is there a number three?"

"Ah, yes, number three. I kind of like number three." She smiled again. "You could be getting back at her for putting horns on you."

He laughed and choked on his drink. "Putting horns on me? Does anybody talk about putting horns on a man anymore? Does anybody know what it means?"

"You know what it means, professor. Do you come to these conferences to pretend you're a traveling salesman?"

"It's a rare woman," he said, "who would rather have a drink with an English teacher than a traveling salesman. Did you know your eyes change color when you turn your head?"

"Is that the reason you're trying to turn my head?"

"It must be part of the reason. But enough about you. I think we're at number four."

"Three should do it." She rummaged in her purse, then stood up. "Thanks for the drinks. I have a plane to catch."

"Tonight? The conference has just started."

"It's OK. I got what I came for. Give my regards to Lorene."

"Lorene? You said you didn't know my wife."

"I don't actually know her. She's a great friend of my husband's, you see, but I promise you he never calls her the Ice Queen. If you speak to her tonight, tell her she'll be getting a package from me at her office tomorrow. Tell her to make sure she's alone when she listens to it."

(c) 2006 by Bellelettres

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