On his bottom lip hung a cigarette a balancing nicotine sea-saw; he could drawback and exhale smoke hands free method.
His hands were in need of some lanolin cream to fill the cracks and moisture for the dehydrated terrain from the constant washing.
His hands were now his most vital organ, more vital to him than his heart that pumped a life blood.
They were the hands of a writer, a psychic link to his mind that had volition of its own when they communed.
A hot day, a cold day, an in between weather sort of day was not on his matter list, as long as it was a writing day.
His nom de plume was Cassandra Lovington and her books were cramming book shelves in homes all over the country.
He had a dedicated following yearning for her romance novels, all roses and lavenders, and baby breath, tanned muscles, piercing eyes, a heart that would beat for two.
Fine-looking, always so very handsome men who took their women unwrapping their inner beauty to heights of joy, pure orgasm and consecrated love.
“Gday Davo. How’s ya rig goin mate?”
Bob scratched his three day stubble that was forming the blackish smudge on his chin.
“Yeh she’s good Jumpa. How’s the missus and the kids? Has she squeezed out the latest one of yours yet?”
“ Shit mate, she looks like a fuckn puffer fish, poor bitch. I am keepn me distance, I not on er good books!”
The truckers growled together in a beer belly laugh.
Jumpa looked about six months gone and Davo he could deliver any day now.
Davo had never married but had known a few ‘good ‘women.
He was known for a man of few words in the romance department, more a love and leave them type once his basic need had been serviced.
He had no need for his heart to come alive, he was the consummate loner.
There had been one that would have been worth the wait for but she didn’t wait around.
“Cassandra married some lucky fella” is all Davo would ever say about her.
None of his trucker mates had an inkling that Davo who spoke with zilch eloquence was a prolific romance novelist who was for most years on a best seller list.
A man who stank most days, not because he was a lazy man but his writing meant more than the idleness of cleaning scale and dirt from his body.
If he wasn’t driving his rig he was writing, writing all the goodness that never got to see the light of day.
He gave his readers a world where there was always a portrait of a hero who would eventually mark his target for love and nothing would delay his arrow penetrating her.
He remembered the day it all began for him, the day his hands became his prize tenure, and his rig took second place.
He was at Sol’s trucker pit on highway 41, his order of fish and chips wrapped for takeaway to munch on in his cabin.
He hadn’t got half way through when her face appeared through the salt and vinegar at him.
The wedding outfits and smiles gave him heart burn of an undeniable regret.
Then and there he grabbed his log sheets and he wrote on their backs the sort of life he would have given her, offered her, bestowed her, rescued her and cried for the first time since he was a little boy.
He was writing, a bearish sort of a man speaking in words that would never make sound, not even for his ears.
Cassandra Lovington his pseudonym was born that day amongst, fish, salt, chips and vinegar in the cabin of Davo’s truck, highway 41.
That day he took a wife to have and to hold for the rest of his life.
He made sure he always had clean hands, Cassandra liked that about him.
© K S Hardy 2009
This idea came from a conversation recently…..I think that person may know who they are! Many thanks for the idea X