*Adult Themes
This is a PG-13 work of fiction as told from the perspective of the character Sandra Perez, the main protagonist of Monterey Valley (WARNING! Link=NSFW)*

Author’s note.
It has been too long. Life and other projects have kept me from working on my vision along with the need to make money. I have been writing, just not as much. Hopefully, these shorts will help boost my desire to finish more of the stories (time permitting) that I have begun and not yet finished.
-Vale

It is summer still.

Hot.

Even though the sun is sinking past the ocean horizon, there is no nip in the air. Not yet. At least for the next month. I will need something to keep me warm after that. But by then, I will desire that comfort. Tonight though, there is a slick that seems to crawl across my skin where the exertions of my day have turned to dirty sweat. My collar sticks uncomfortably to my neck and I undo an extra button over my generous chest, pushing the silky fabric away from my throat and down over my shoulders. I’m exposed like this. Thanks to the new décolletage I have made in my once proper, button-down silk shirt, Anyone can see the frill of lace that’s stretched taut across my bosom. My shoulders are bare and the light breeze cools the exposed skin beneath my chin. I like it, this feeling. I like being exposed. But no one is here to see it. My efforts are wasted save for my own pleasure.

Billowy sleeves ruffle as I shift in my seat, relieving my tailbone of its uncomfortable burden. It has been a long day. It has been a long week. My Beer is ice cold in my hand, its perspiration soaking between my fingers as my thoughts stray to the man I fired today. He had been working for my company for some time now. He had done well. Until he had not. Instead of working the problem, he had chosen to obfuscate the truth with dirty tactics, inflate his sales numbers. He was not even sloppy. He had been careful. I had not caught on in nearly a year. But in less than a week, my new assistant had seen through the ruse.

Smart girl, Irene.

Sexy girl…

“Unn…” I grunt in discomfort as the memories of the last week return fresh to my mind. My… Activities with Irene, my past discretions. A fist balls in my stomach, clenching tight around my guts, turning my pale ale sour.

First Lucas… Then Irene. Judy. And…

I pick up the letter sitting silently on the frosted glass side table, its voice only just contained inside the red envelope. “Red’s an angry color!” Someone once told me, many years ago. But I choose to see it as the color of passion. But as I stare at this piece of mail, it is not only passion I feel welling up inside me, but anger too. And sadness. 

The once crisp stock is soft against my skin, worn and supple from the hundreds of times I’ve read it already. Once again I gently spread apart its opening, dip my fingers inside, and pull out the neatly folded paper, the letter head borrowed from some dentist’s office I do not know. The return address says Touchet, WA. I know that’s just outside of Richland. I even drove through once. But I didn’t stop. I could not bring myself to stop…

I read it again, careful not to tear the paper at the folds where it’s been worn down to fibers. The corners are rounded and the edges have begun to discolor from the oil rubbing off of my fingers. I read it. And I weep. Tears dribble slowly out of the corners of my eyes, something I am generally not accustomed to. I do not… Do emotion. Not like this. I prefer to show my feelings in other ways, deal with them on my own terms, usually a physical expression of what lies inside my mind and my heart.

This letter though, it reminds me of someone I have not seen in twenty years. It reminds me of a person I know is a part of me but that I have never met. It reminds of a life that I could have had if she had simply not turned her back on me.

But now…

As I sit here watching the Orange glow of the fading light streaking across the sky, I can’t help but wonder.

Did she turn her back on me…

Or did I?

Through watery eyes, I watch, orange light fading quickly to pink as I consider the reality of my choices now and so many years ago. More slowly, purple begins to stain the scales of the mackerel sky and before I know it, the light dies, leaving myself and the memories I hold clutched tight in my fist, in darkness.

Just like that, in a near blink of the eye, my favorite time of day is gone. The twilight between light and dark. That marker whereby I move from one half of my life into the other, both separate yet contained within me. My own light. My own darkness…

Eventually, the veranda lights blink on, glowing against the rust colored saltillo tiles like a cheap imitation of the sunset I had just witnessed. Carefully, I fold the letter and place it back in its envelope. Its voice is gone, and with it, my feelings. Squeezing the last of the tears from my eyes, I get up and head inside. It is getting late. My guest will be here soon and I know my mascara has run. 

I need to put on my other face.

“I will deal with you later.” I murmur to the letter as I prop it against a picture atop the side table inside the door. It is one of the few framed images in my home.

It is of myself.

Together.

With Sally…