Read Online Allegories of the Tarot by Annetta Ribken, Eden Baylee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annetta Ribken, Eden Baylee
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alarm woke me in time to make breakfast for Patrick
every morning at 6 a.m. sharp while he showered. I knew I wouldn’t see him
again until late that night.
“Don’t eat so fast,” I said, placing a mug of
French-pressed coffee on the granite countertop.
“Can’t help it. Staff meeting.” Patrick reached for another almond
croissant. “They expect me to arrive first.”
I sighed. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“I doubt it. I’ll call if I’m able to leave early.” He
kissed the top of my head and headed for the door. “Have a
good day writing, darling.”
“Wait.” I handed him the travel mug. “Don’t forget your
coffee.”
“Thanks, love, or should I say, Electra?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You still like the pen name?”
“I think it’s perfect for you.” He pulled out the key
fob from his jacket and started the car remotely. “Now I really must run or
I’ll be late.”
Thanks to his prestigious job as Director of Obstetrics
& Gynecology, I was able to pursue my dream of writing. But
at what cost?
After Patrick left for the day, I sat down at my
computer and attempted to rework a pivotal chapter for my debut novel. The book
revolved around a May-December romance and for some reason, I struggled with
the sex scene. I chose the storyline based on the old adage of “write what you
know.” The rest of the story came easily, so it concerned me I could not hammer
out a short sex scene.
As I re-read the manuscript, words from the Tarot reader
hijacked my thoughts. How could she be so wrong? A young, sexually immature man
was the exact opposite of who Patrick was. It annoyed me I was giving it
another thought.
Memories of our tenth wedding anniversary in Paris came
to mind. The city of love. Though we didn’t make love
once during the entire week we were there. It wasn’t that he was not
affectionate; he just wasn’t particularly sexual anymore. At fifty-three, his
sex drive waned as mine was ramping up.
The ding of an incoming email vibrated in my ears. I
plucked out my earbuds and hit the mute button on the laptop. Fuck. I’d forgotten I inserted the
headphones to drown out the sound of the summer roadwork down the street.
Since my writing wasn’t going anywhere, I toggled to my
email program and opened a message from someone named J.D. Ellsworth. I hit the
link and his face appeared on screen. His name sounded familiar, but I’d never
seen him before. Clean-shaven, boyish, big blue eyes—nice. His mouth spoke to me. Lips were my thing, something about imagining how they moved
when talking, eating food…eating me.
My mind jumped back to the sex scene I was writing
before thoughts of the Tarot invaded; I immediately squeezed my eyes to
recapture it. Slow drifting human shapes writhed in my mind’s eye. A smile
crossed my face as letters formed words. The image merged with potential
sentences and I repeated the words in my head so I would not forget them.
Fluid, sensual, union, motion, all
great words colliding and trying to fall into place. Only moments away
from cohesive structure, the picture blurred. In what seemed like an instant, dark shadows replaced the shapes and faded to
black. I remained still for several seconds, desperately hoping the scene would
return. It didn’t. The words had evaporated too.
My eyes shot open in frustration. I suddenly remembered
how I knew J.D. Ellsworth.
***
J.D. Ellsworth was part of an online writers’ group I
belonged to. Helmed by an ambitious young woman who updated regularly, I found
the group supportive of new writers, a forum where one could connect to someone
who might like us; I mean, really like us.
At the time, J.D.’s profile picture was a horse, as
pretentiously regal as I thought his abbreviated name and haughty surname
sounded. I had a slight complex about my name. Ellen Lee was perfect if I wrote
children’s books, but I didn’t write for kids. I wrote for adults only, and I
needed something punchy and original.
every morning at 6 a.m. sharp while he showered. I knew I wouldn’t see him
again until late that night.
“Don’t eat so fast,” I said, placing a mug of
French-pressed coffee on the granite countertop.
“Can’t help it. Staff meeting.” Patrick reached for another almond
croissant. “They expect me to arrive first.”
I sighed. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“I doubt it. I’ll call if I’m able to leave early.” He
kissed the top of my head and headed for the door. “Have a
good day writing, darling.”
“Wait.” I handed him the travel mug. “Don’t forget your
coffee.”
“Thanks, love, or should I say, Electra?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You still like the pen name?”
“I think it’s perfect for you.” He pulled out the key
fob from his jacket and started the car remotely. “Now I really must run or
I’ll be late.”
Thanks to his prestigious job as Director of Obstetrics
& Gynecology, I was able to pursue my dream of writing. But
at what cost?
After Patrick left for the day, I sat down at my
computer and attempted to rework a pivotal chapter for my debut novel. The book
revolved around a May-December romance and for some reason, I struggled with
the sex scene. I chose the storyline based on the old adage of “write what you
know.” The rest of the story came easily, so it concerned me I could not hammer
out a short sex scene.
As I re-read the manuscript, words from the Tarot reader
hijacked my thoughts. How could she be so wrong? A young, sexually immature man
was the exact opposite of who Patrick was. It annoyed me I was giving it
another thought.
Memories of our tenth wedding anniversary in Paris came
to mind. The city of love. Though we didn’t make love
once during the entire week we were there. It wasn’t that he was not
affectionate; he just wasn’t particularly sexual anymore. At fifty-three, his
sex drive waned as mine was ramping up.
The ding of an incoming email vibrated in my ears. I
plucked out my earbuds and hit the mute button on the laptop. Fuck. I’d forgotten I inserted the
headphones to drown out the sound of the summer roadwork down the street.
Since my writing wasn’t going anywhere, I toggled to my
email program and opened a message from someone named J.D. Ellsworth. I hit the
link and his face appeared on screen. His name sounded familiar, but I’d never
seen him before. Clean-shaven, boyish, big blue eyes—nice. His mouth spoke to me. Lips were my thing, something about imagining how they moved
when talking, eating food…eating me.
My mind jumped back to the sex scene I was writing
before thoughts of the Tarot invaded; I immediately squeezed my eyes to
recapture it. Slow drifting human shapes writhed in my mind’s eye. A smile
crossed my face as letters formed words. The image merged with potential
sentences and I repeated the words in my head so I would not forget them.
Fluid, sensual, union, motion, all
great words colliding and trying to fall into place. Only moments away
from cohesive structure, the picture blurred. In what seemed like an instant, dark shadows replaced the shapes and faded to
black. I remained still for several seconds, desperately hoping the scene would
return. It didn’t. The words had evaporated too.
My eyes shot open in frustration. I suddenly remembered
how I knew J.D. Ellsworth.
***
J.D. Ellsworth was part of an online writers’ group I
belonged to. Helmed by an ambitious young woman who updated regularly, I found
the group supportive of new writers, a forum where one could connect to someone
who might like us; I mean, really like us.
At the time, J.D.’s profile picture was a horse, as
pretentiously regal as I thought his abbreviated name and haughty surname
sounded. I had a slight complex about my name. Ellen Lee was perfect if I wrote
children’s books, but I didn’t write for kids. I wrote for adults only, and I
needed something punchy and original.
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