Laura; 1

This is the first in a series of installments I plan to release over the next several weeks. I'm not sure where it's going, and that's the fun of it! I would love feeback. Don't be shy, and the look for the next installment next week.
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1

Laura’s Got a Gun just didn’t feel right.

He played with his fu manchu, still not long enough to make him look more than twelve.

The story was incomplete, but that could come later. It could always come later. The title could not. He wanted her to understand that he had been listening to her all along, that despite slip after slip, something she said once upon a time had finally resonated, and would now be the cornerstone of his recovery.

What the hell was it?

He had always been a lover of words, a sapiosexual and an artist. Laura was everything that made him feel grounded when he was sober, so damn right.

He listened when she spoke.

For the life of him he could not remember the exact diction. It made him bite his tongue in concentration and to recede into some part of his memory that he could jog loose.

Nothing. Nothing but a string of blackouts.

He wished he could forgive himself but found the task to be impossible at best, the memories of their acquaintance buried deep within drunken mumblings, expressions of adoration and dedication and love that never seemed to melt the icy walls between them. Brief periods of latent sobriety would occasionally wear the ice thin enough for him to catch a glimpse of her before freezing over again, either by his mistake or hers, layer upon compounding layer, like icicles.

Finally, he wrote To Laura and the date next to it. Perhaps he could title it later, and as long as he stayed sober for as long as it took to come up with a title worth having, he would remember how he felt that day.

He jotted down words like ‘humility,’ ‘loyalty’ and ‘moments lost’ before setting his pencil on the bright yellow paper, pushing back from the desk and stretching.

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