This is the revised draft of VSF #17. I'm much happier with this version. Since this is my first time revising a story, I'm especially interested in any feedback.

Here's a link to the first draft: http://www.imwan.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=14532

The Heart’s Filthy Lesson


I recall perfectly the moment Angela fell out of love with me. We lay in bed together, comfortably in each other’s arms. The smoke from the cigarette we shared obscured the lingering smell of sweat and sex, the ashtray resting on my knee, between us. We didn’t speak, but that wasn’t unusual. The happiness of silence, she called it. After awhile she smashed out the cigarette and put the ashtray on the nightstand beside the bed. She smiled up at me, tilted her head back, and kissed me goodnight. Somewhere in the middle of that brief kiss, she fell out of love with me. Most people wouldn’t have caught it, but when you’ve experienced it as much as I have, you become pretty adept at spotting it.

A week ago, less than a month after that kiss, she left me.

I can’t really blame Valerie for being fed up. Despite being my younger sister, she was, frankly, far better at casual affairs than I was, and had little patience for my heartsick whining. Some of her impatience must have rubbed off on me, because I found myself in a nightclub of her choosing on a Friday night, when I normally would have been at home making CDs full of songs that perfectly captured my current emotional state. What I wasn’t prepared for was her abandoning me after an hour to sneak off to a semi-secluded corner of the club to make out with a friend of hers who worked as a bartender in the club.

My head was pounding along with the music, and I hadn’t decided whether to take a cab home or get another drink. I was shoving my way through the crowd on my way to the door when I saw her. In the truest sense of the words, she was the girl of my dreams. Not some airbrushed cover girl with fake breasts and Barbarella hair. This was, instead, the girl I’d always pictured, always judged other girls by. Long, straight, strawberry-blond hair, clever grey-green eyes, and a smile like she was laughing at everything and everyone but me.

Minutes later, I was surprised to find myself exchanging life stories with her. I would have been less surprised to find myself floating six inches off the ground. Nightclubs are where better looking, better dressed people than I, go to meet other better looking, better dressed people. They are not where a reasonable looking book store manager and a farm girl-turned-artist meet and fall in love. I wasn’t surprised when she asked if we could go someplace quieter to talk. Until she suggested my place.

I had the fleeting fear that my sister had put her up to this. I found that I didn’t care.

Some combination of the proximity of the backseat of the cab and the inattentiveness of the driver must have triggered some chemical response. Our hands wandered. Her lips felt like silk against mine. The cab ride took far too long and seemed to end far too soon.

My apartment was much quieter than the club, but we did very little talking.

Somewhere in the midst of things she pauses. The moon reflects off her glistening skin and her red-gold hair is a shining halo. She asks me if I love her and, in that moment, I say yes.

I fell asleep with the taste of her on my lips. She smelled like apple blossoms. We drifted off to sleep in happy silence.

When I awoke, the previous night felt like a dream. The morning was grey and flat, and I lay in the bed without the energy to move. Days, hours, or minutes later, I found the strength to sit up. She was gone. I hadn’t dreamed her, I knew that. I could remember every moment of our evening together. I remembered every word we’d said to each other, the crinkling of her nose when she laughed, the stray strand of hair that appeared to be inexorably drawn to the corner of her mouth when she spoke, the way her hands and fingers danced about, punctuating her conversation. I remembered other things, as well. Things I hadn’t noticed at the time. The near-desperate hunger with which she hung on my words, the strain at the edge of a smile held too long. The sorrow and relief on her face when I told her I loved her. When I found the note, I understood.

I thank you for the gift of love you have given me. I love you, and I’m sorry.

With flat, grey eyes I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Some part of me knew there were things I should have been feeling. Sadness, shock, anger, disgust, and honestly, disbelief. I felt none of them. Sometime in the night, as quick and quiet as a thief, she took my heart.

The rewrite was definitely a good idea. I understand the story and the character much better now!

Yeah, I like the fleshed-out version as well. It goes from an anecdotal tale to more of a character-driven piece to me.

Thanks, guys. That was pretty much my biggest problem with the first draft. I finished it and realized I didn't really care about either of the characters.

This is an excellent piece. Makes me want to fall in love with a read-headed artist type.

Maybe it's the phrasing, or just the way its organized, but this bit made me thing, for a minute, that something far weirder was going on here. Probably just me though.

Yikes. I just realized what you meant. Yeah, that's an unfortunate bit of phrasing there.

Still though. It's probably just me.

Well, no, I had to read the same thing twice to be sure I understood what was going on. I was relieved once I did!

The fix is to say something like, "My sister Valerie was less than sympathetic when I told her about what had happened with Angela, and I really couldn't blame her."

I agree that the rewrite is much better.

That said, you completely upturn the apple cart when, out of nowhere, you throw in a paragraph that uses not the past tense, but the present tense:


You can get away with the single present tense verb in the first sentence of the story, since all stories can be argued to be recollections happening "in the moment", but the above quote is the equivalent of the needle scratching all the way across the record in the middle of a very satisfying listening experience.

I love, as usual, your use of physical details here, but I'm not sure that I completely understand what happened at the end. Was the farmgirl-turned-artist some kind of fix-up? A prostitute? Why did she leave the narrator flat after such a great night?

A case where critiques on the board were actually quite useful.

This story is kind of hard for me to read after what's happened in my own life since I read it last.