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    Thief And Other Love Stories
    Thief And Other Love Stories
    Thief And Other Love Stories
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    Thief And Other Love Stories

    By EJ Knapp

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    About this ebook

    Singing, dancing, murder and magic, the theft of a painting, a short trip to hell, a grand adventure and a despondent green monster. Nine short stories by the author of the non-fiction book Secrets of the Golden Gate Bridge and the novels Stealing The Marbles and Meter Maids Eat Their Young.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publishergomi1023
    Release dateFeb 27, 2013
    ISBN9781301772759
    Thief And Other Love Stories
    Author

    EJ Knapp

    EJ Knapp was born during a thunderstorm in Detroit, Michigan, several years before the Motor City discovered fins. Raised in a working-class, blue-collar neighborhood, he morphed into the stereotypical hoodlum a teenager growing up on the west side of Detroit was expected to be. Dropping out of high school at sixteen, he hit the road in his '60 Chevy and has, in one way or another, been rolling down that road ever since.

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      Book preview

      Thief And Other Love Stories - EJ Knapp

      Thief

      And Other Love Stories

      EJ Knapp

      For Michael and Jennifer Knapp and Cameron and Austin Cline. The next generation.

      The Dance

      Originally published in The Battered Suitcase, December, 2008.

      For HB

      The strains of something vaguely Garth Brooks drifted through the half-open door of the patio. Tinny. Flat. The hum of traffic rising from the street ten floors below possessed more rhythm.

      Rose glanced at her watch. The vermilion digits ticked off the seconds. The shadows of dancing couples slid across her table. She wondered if he’d show? He hadn’t been at the conference earlier in the day. But then, he’d written to say he wouldn’t be. Other commitments, he’d said, not commenting further. So like him, of course. Outside his poetry, he divulged little of his personal life.

      She had a picture of him. An old one, he’d said. She had emailed him one of her. Likewise old. She had recent ones. Still in the camera. The digital age. Less clutter. No half full photo albums, pages browning with age. Gathering dust. She hadn’t been happy for a long time. The newer photos showed it. Hence the old one. Haughty and seductive. Full of mirth. It mirrored her feelings of their eleven month, online relationship.

      Old photos. Old times. She wondered if they would recognize each other?

      The music shifted to a tired rendition of an old Beach Boys tune. There was a changing of the guard on the dance floor. She glanced at her watch again. Took a delicate sip of her Chardonnay. Grimaced. It tasted more like verjuice than wine. Next year they’d have to find a fancier place to hold the convention.

      She set the wine aside. Considered a cigarette. Rejected it. Rising from her seat, she walked over to the wrought iron railing. It was woven tight with night-blooming jasmine. The scent heavy. Sweet. She stared out at the lights. She had never been to San Francisco before. There was something magical about the energy in the air. Or was the magic the anticipation of him?

      You’re a long way from Verdigris, Oklahoma Rosy old girl, she thought, turning from the railing.

      Scene Break

      Thorn stood in the shadows. Watched her as she crossed the patio. He watched the sway of her dress. The way the hem brushed against the back of her calves. The easy way her body moved beneath the sheer fabric. She had a shawl wrapped about her shoulders, drawn tight across her bosom against the cool night air. He felt a moment of envy for the shawl.

      He shivered. From the cold? The envy? Desire? He wasn’t sure. Fear? How long had it been since he’d been in the company of a woman without the protective barrier of cyberspace to shield him? He considered turning around. Running. Back to the isolation of the small, Northern Minnesota town he’d flown in from. Back to safety. Back to the pale glow of his laptop. Her words weaving soft blankets of warmth and comfort. Hard pillows of despair.

      He had seen her leaving the conference hall. Walking with a group of women. Laughing. Talking loud. He recognized most of them from posted photos on the forum site.

      Their physical features familiar. She stood out amongst them. Her red hair a flame he felt drawn to like a freezing man to a hearth.

      He studied her now in profile. A little older than her photo. A little heavier. His hand went unconsciously to his cheek. Traced laugh lines on a face that had forgotten laughter. He’d been told his features were craggy. That the lines etched into his skin gave him character. Like the worm holes and gouges on antique furniture gave it character.

      Character. Lines and whorls. Hair more chalk than anthracite. Love handles that hadn’t felt a woman’s love in years. Character? Yeah. Right. The image in his morning mirror just made him feel old.

      He took a deep breath. Stepped from the shadows. She turned from the railing. Their gazes met. She smiled nervously. His heart pounded.

      Scene Break

      So. He shifted uncomfortably on the wrought iron chair. Patted the breast pocket of his grey wool suit. Fumbled out his cigarettes. Felt the blood rush of embarrassment.

      I’m sorry, he said. His voice sounded weak and jittery to his ears. Do you mind?

      Oh. No, she said. Not at all. She produced a pack of her own. Slipped one out. Put it between her lips. He produced a blue Bic. Lit hers. Then his own. The smoke rose. Intertwined. Drifted away in the jasmine scented breeze.

      She was leaning toward him. Waiting. A finely woven chain hung about her neck, the golden strands hanging down like a trail marker to the dark cave of her cleavage. He resisted the urge to follow the trail. Failed. When he looked up, she was smiling. He blushed again with embarrassment. She laughed.

      Don’t worry about it, she said. What’s the point of a strategically placed necklace above a low cut dress if no one dares to look? She laughed again. The sound made his lungs feel too small. His heart too heavy to beat.

      How long have you been a Buddhist? she asked.

      A Buddhist?

      A look of confusion crossed his face. He glanced down. Their hands were nearly touching. He could almost feel the warmth of her finger tips. He longed to reach out, touch her face. Trace the lines of her nose. Her lips. The cleft of her chin. He shivered. Looked up.

      Oh, he said. The forum, you mean.

      Yeah, she said. Pagan Poets For Buddha.

      He was unsure what he should tell her. Would it matter? Would his confession end it here? I’m not a Buddhist, actually, he said. I’m not even sure I’m a pagan.

      Really? she said. Smiling. Her eyes sparkled. It made him feel as if he’d been plugged into a wall socket. Wet.

      Neither am I, she continued. "A Buddhist, I

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