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The Things You Do For Love

Every evening, pounding the pavements, come rain or shine, with me twenty yards behind. I do my best, but I'm overweight, stockily built and no athlete; I sense people laughing at me. She thinks I like to run with her, but I don't - I do it because I love her. And I need to look out for her too; she means everything to me.

Eventually we arrive home, both of us tired and sweaty and she slips into the shower. I hang around outside, watching her lithe figure through the frosted glass. I'm anticipating a long evening on the sofa together - maybe an early night.

But when she's dried off, she starts getting ready to go out and I watch her, trying not to make her feel guilty. When it comes down to it, I'll take whatever crumbs of attention and love she's prepared to give me, I guess. I'm such a pushover, and she can read me like a book.

Much as I love her though, I'm exhausted and I know she won't want me cramping her style tonight. I need to let her go - she's a woman who needs her own space.

I sigh, flop onto the sofa and stare fixedly at the television until she plants a distracted kiss on my head as she's leaving. My heart sinks for a moment, but then she pauses at the door, suddenly remembering what she needs to do to make everything right between us.

And as the door closes behind her, I settle contentedly down on the rug with my bone.

Story by:

Sandra Crook

22 October 2012

Sandra Crook's web:

www.castelsarrasin.wordpress.com