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Fiction Short Story

Judith Lautner

Judith Lautner is a middle-aged woman with two grown children and one grandchild. She first started writing in first grade (poetry), but for most of her life simply wrote letters (and reports for work). She had a compulsion to express herself in writing and used it to describe personal experiences and feelings, many of which now are on her web pages. She worked as a city planner for about twenty years, where she learned how to write concisely and clearly, and where she got some sense of what it takes to learn different types of writing. In 1998 she set out to find her "fiction" voice. After a lot of stumbling around, wasting time and giving up, she found some resources that began to make a difference. One of these is the Writers Village University, where she finds the study groups ideal for the kind of help she needs.

The Chain

They were lovers. They had agreed that the relationship didn't mean anything, that it was casual and limited. They made no promises of fidelity, met when it suited them both and otherwise stayed out of each other's way.

There were times when she went to his house. They sat on his red couch watching rented movies, edging closer to each other, touching each other, he fondling her small breasts, her fine long black hair, she feeling the bushiness of his dark heavy eyebrows and beard, both exploring the places that made the other react, until the movie became a wash of sound and flickering light.

There were times they met at a restaurant. They talked of their lives over bowls of pasta and a salad, focusing on the work they did, making vague allusions to friends and family, deftly skirting any discussion that hinted of complications, needs, desires that their uncomplicated pairing could not address.

Sometimes they took a brief trip out of town. They stayed in a motel room, hungry for each other, grateful that they were still young enough to exhilarate in the flush of mutual attraction.

It was casual, though. No strings, no commitment, and they both liked it that way.

He invited her to see a play with him. He knew some of the actors. She gladly came along, curious. They enjoyed the play and spoke with his friends afterward. She saw how his eyes lit up when he talked of acting and directing. She saw the pain when he spoke of how he could no longer fit in these kinds of activities because of the pressures of his work. She heard the warmth in the voices of his friends.

They went to her house for coffee later. She played a Beethoven sonata on her piano, closing her eyes and focusing, her breathing slow and careful. He watched her, wondering for just a minute who she was.

The next day he stopped by her house after work. He said he wanted her to remember him when they were apart. He slipped a small thin gold chain around her neck and fastened it with a tiny padlock. He showed her the key and pocketed it, asking for her concurrence with his eyes. She fingered the chain, her mouth slightly open, not certain what to say.

He continued to date other people. She said she wanted more time to herself, and left off dating others. If she asked, he mentioned who he'd been with the night before. It started to bother her. The day came when she wanted the necklace gone.

She met him at his house and asked him to unlock it. He searched through his many keys and could not find the little one. He searched again, desperate to unlock the feeling that had him by the throat. The key wasn't there. They both searched their memories but could not remember when they'd last seen it.

She later found the key in her drawer, tucked beneath her underwear. She then remembered she had slipped it off his key ring shortly after he had locked the chain on her, just in case. She held it in her hand, then slipped it back where she'd found it.