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Excerpt for No Moment is The Same. by , available in its entirety at Smashwords



No Moment is The Same.















































































Copyright © 2018 by Von Kambro


All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition, 2018

ISBN:

Duneview Publishing
P.O. Box 223
Byron Center, MI. 49315

www.thestoryaswritten.com



All situations and characters are fictional.























































“No moment is the same, it only seems that way.”

I was left with those words the last time I was with him.

We decided to end our relationship with comforting words instead of vengeful actions, and I walked away with memories that would come crashing into me and flood my mind and soul with overwhelming regret and sorrow.

There wasn’t time to collect my thoughts. The memories I had kept tucked away for better times, for need of celebration have suddenly become more of a crutch and I can only hobble along as each one begins to cripple me.

Nobody ever has time to properly say good-bye even if it’s planned for, because whenever that moment comes, and for whatever reason it might be…it never has arrived with proper etiquette and allowing yourself the belief that what you had prepared for is only a self-indulgent lie.

Such is the only way I can describe our parting ways.

Overwhelmed with grief, and the fear of being alone.

Again.

What’s the purpose of choosing to be with someone when the odds of being fortunate enough to win in the high stakes gamble of being in love only has worse odds than winning a multi-state lottery?



Maybe it sounds like self-pity, a negative attitude, or maybe I’ve just given up.

So now, I begin anew.

Not knowing how to start over.

I think back to when I met him and the consequences that brought us together, and when I do his presence in my memory comes dancing in like a proud dancer, twirling and spinning. Each step as confident as the last.

That evening was magical when I first met him.

I was at my friend Becky’s house warming party, I had just poured myself a glass of wine and was watching everyone from inside the kitchen window as they mingled and were having wonderful, spirited conversations. Smiling, laughing and carrying on with one another in eclectic ambience.

I wasn’t sad, or even jealous. I remember thinking how lucky they were to have those moments with one another and to be enjoying themselves.

I savored my singular moment of being a spectator.

I took a sip from my glass and smiled.

And then, he walked in.

It wasn’t that he walked in from a door behind me, but the fact that he’d pushed the slider open in front of me and because I was lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see him until he stood in front of me and waved his hand slowly in front of my face and smiled.

I took one sip to try and hide my smile.

It was an immediate connection to him, but I didn’t want to be obvious.

“You have a nice smile.” He said.

A deep voice sounded, echoed in my head: “Bussss-ted…busted.”

Dammit.

What can a girl do when her defenses give her away? I kept the glass up to my mouth and I drank the rest of the wine before setting it down on the counter.

I looked at him directly in his eyes.

Oh, what a mistake. I could feel my pupils widen.

His hazel eyes. The greens, the browns, they were intense…like an animal, but so beautiful.

I uttered a half confident reply: “When the, uh, wine is this good, it makes me smile.”

He smiled again and shook his head as he watched my hand grab the empty wine glass and tried to take another sip.

“So, the residual must be very good as well.” He said.

I looked down into the empty glass and tipped slightly over my nose and inhaled. I lifted the glass up and looked at it carefully, tilting it left and right.

“Sometimes, a wine has what they call after-birth.” It was the best answer I could come up with.

“May I?” he said as he reached for the glass. His hand grasped mine. I let him ease my hand and the glass toward him and we held it in unison like victors holding up a trophy. He studied it for moment, and then looked at me those fascinating, bewildering eyes.

“Allow me.” His hand began to squeeze harder on mine, but it didn’t hurt. He pulled the glass gently and I had no choice but to step closer to him.

We were almost toe to toe, and now I could feel myself beginning to let go. My inhibitions were almost gone, swallowed whole by the presence of this man whom I’d just met and still didn’t know his name.

At that instant someone walked by, and as they did I heard: “Hi Michael! Hi Jamey!” It was Becky. She just waltzed past not interested in the least while her friend was standing there holding an empty wine glass with a man in her kitchen.

Michael. Well, at least I knew his name.

He guided my hand down as we held the glass. He could feel my hand become weak and let go.

“I’m sorry. Is your hand okay?” He was so sincere.

The glass slipped from my hand and fell onto the floor.

Surprisingly, it didn’t break, but my heart was beginning to. “No.” Michael looked at me with shock.

“I didn’t mean to, I mean, I could feel you hand move, so I thought- “He bent down and picked up the glass and set it on the counter.

I hadn’t realized that my answer was misplaced until he looked at my hand as he spoke: “I really don’t know my own strength.” I smiled, but he looked bewildered when I replied: “Well, I do!”

Michael stood back and looked at me, a devilish grin had appeared, and I think he understood that I was to nervous to give him the kind of response he expected with words.

“So, Jamie, has anyone ever told you how charming you are?” Michael’s smile made me melt from the inside. I looked at his magnificent body. His broad shoulders, his perfectly groomed black hair, his boyish face and that silky voice combined with gentle personality was turning me on.

“I’ve been told that.” I didn’t want to say much because I knew he could sense my attraction to him, but I didn’t completely care.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into him. My thoughts were like a pack of wild horses that were running wild. I couldn’t contain them, they were free and going to wherever they wanted. We began to kiss passionately, but I pulled way as I heard Becky jokingly greet us as she once again walked past: By Michael! By Jamie!”

She stopped at the sliding doors and turned around and looked back at us and smiled. She winked at me and gave hardy thumbs up before heading back outside.

Michael and I returned to our kissing. I let him pick me up, his hands curled around my thighs, my legs wrapped around his waist. He sat me down on the counter and we began to feel other bodies with our demanding, over excited hands, grabbing and squeezing our clothing and feeling whatever, we could.

That’s how our relationship began.

A Rapid, fire.

And then, like always, and like everyone else the fire extinguishes itself. The heat of passion drowns itself out with over exertion and when the last ember remains your left with clasped hands that are futile in their attempt in giving reassurance that once you open them and face the palms toward the source of your desire that somehow, someway, a raging fire will become re-ignited and continue to burn for eternity.

We had the typical romance. A chance meeting that was handed to us by fate. We stayed together for two years and really did care about one another, but that fire was gone. Our hearts would beat like a continuous drum roll whenever we made love, but it was after, the moments of solitude. No words, just holding each-other.

It was beyond nice, it was beyond sexual. It was natural.

We never really argued, we shared the same interests, and I never felt insecure with him.

I trusted him.

I could finally look in the mirror and be brave enough to study my face.

It’s not something most of us like to do as we age. We prefer to avoid looking at what we believe is a false image.

It’s now we remember ourselves looking, or ever expected to be. The darkened eyes, a few extra lines beside them.

The visible signs that we have lived life.

Good or bad, the signs are there.

But there was something unusual I noticed about me when I looked in the mirror, something I hadn’t seen in a long time: A smile.

I was happy.

Content.

It was that same day, the very day he told me that no moment is the same. It was way of letting me go.

Today is a different day, in fact it’s the day after we broke up. I stand in front of the mirror and I can see everything that was there before I met him, and the one thing I had while I was with him, had vanished: The smile.

No moment is the same. He was right, and I finally understood the reasoning and honesty behind his comment.

We shared moments together that seemed like they were united by our attraction and affection for one another, but in fact, there was a degree of separation that kept him from completely connecting to me, even-though I believed otherwise.

That’s what he was telling me. What I thought was a two-way street, was just a one way.

Love blinds us all is what we’re told.

I don’t agree.

I believe Love makes us see things we would not ever see in ourselves. The feelings of contentment, the desire of wanting to be with someone, the passion of making love with someone, the willingness to give ourselves to someone and trust them with our bodies, our minds, our hearts, our dreams.

Love makes us see those things.

Love makes us do those things.

And when it comes down to it, and the reality of love settles in, or if it doesn’t, then that’s when it happens:

No moment is the same.



The End.


















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