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The Conversation

John E. Wynne
© Copyright 2000 by John E. Wynne

It was one day last week. I had come home from a grueling day at work and was enjoying the view of the south Florida sunset through my sliding glass door when I heard her voice from over my left shoulder.

"John, we need to talk."

I knew this was coming, it had been building for some time. Now it was time to confront the situation. I continued to peer out at the pink and blue clouds and formulate my thoughts. She interrupted my solace.

"You know," she said, "When we first met you used to say that I was beautiful, that I was the best you ever had, you used to take me out and show me off, you took me to new heights, you made me sing. And now I feel neglected, I feel old."

I turned to her and offered my best defense.

"Well, lately I've been snowed with opera rehearsal and reading scripts for plays to direct and holding down a day job, it hasn't been easy."

"And now you have your writing class on Monday night which takes you away from me even more," she chimed in.

"Yes, I have neglected you, but things will change here soon, you'll see." I said in my sincerest tone. Then the guilt got to me, I swept her up sat on the couch with her on my lap in one fell swoop and began to run my fingers over her neck. I looked down at her, my old guitar. She was right¾a layer of dust had formed on her body presenting a stark reminder of how long it had been since I had given her any attention. I assured her that I would make her soar again, make her sing. Right after I finished my assignment for writing class. I swear I heard a sigh, but I think it was one of relief.

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