The Lion's Pride -- (short story included)

I am so proud of so much of the writing that I have done and created. Despite this, my shyness still makes me very apprehensive about sharing any of it. Worse, there are occasions that I share my writing, and then people say they like it, but leave it at that. It gives an impression of disinterest and insincerity. When I read a book I like, I look for similar books, I look for other books from the author, I latch onto the idea, and I think about how things could have gone differently. When someone is able to read what I have written and not feel a desire to ask about more, or to talk about it, I feel that I have failed as a writer.
My intent, when I write, isn't simply to help someone pass time. My writing is not to be read with the same level of disinterest as the weather report. Opening people's minds to the beauty of the world around them is a lofty goal, but it starts by opening their eyes. It starts by showing people that there are other points of view, that there is beauty and mystery and romance where they don't see it already. When I read (especially what I've written), I get goosebumps, my heartbeat quickens, my mind races, and I keep turning the pages until they become blank. And even then, I write more because there is so much that can be written.

When people read my writing as words, rather than ideas, actions, adventures, memories, and heartfelt feelings, I have failed at my task. I have not enthralled the audience, and I have not given them a way to relate to the story. Any feedback from someone that sees my writing as just words becomes that much harder to take, because I don't know where I failed to connect them to the characters, and they have a hard time describing it as well.
Part of me wonders if they just skimmed, instead of reading. Even so, this rejection by way of uncaring-ness is something that I have trouble getting over. Perhaps I simply need to share more, and my litmus tests for the reception of my stories has just been too small-scale. Having only a handful of people read something is sure to go less than hopeful for at least one. Perhaps I need to broaden my audience. Perhaps, though I lack the confidence at this time, I can borrow it from the future.

As such, I am sharing a story today, in an effort to bring interested parties to the fore.
This is not the complete story, and I am still writing more in this story. It will likely be the beginning of the collaborative work I discussed in previous posts.  Thoughts are not only welcome, but encouraged. Please leave comments.

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# !!Story!! #
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The first beam of sunlight came into the room and awoke Paul from his slumber.  He checked beside himself on the bed, still not sure what was dream and what was reality. There she lay, her silky-smooth legs rubbing enticingly against each other, reminding Paul of her femininity. As the blanket fell from her, Olivia's ivory skin seemed nearly luminous in the moonlight. Not an inch of her was hidden to him. He reached out to her, feeling her warm skin despite the cool morning air.
She stirred a bit in her sleep from his touch, and he removed his hand. Her jet-black hair outlined her face, causing a smile to cross Paul's. He had no intention of waking her from a much-deserved rest. He rose from the bed slowly, so as not to wake his fair-skinned goddess.
He searched the floor of the room with the sunrise as his only light in the unfamiliar territory. As his hands searched for his clothing, his memories of their past confronted him.
He had loved her for so long, before she even met the man that had yesterday broken her heart, yet Paul was a stranger to her bedroom. He had loved her since he first set eyes on her, he had supported her, and now when she needed to relieve stress, he allowed himself to be her plaything. It was crushing to him, to know all of his happiness was laying on the bed, dreaming of another man. A man who had left her for a woman less-worthy, some younger woman named Stacy.
As she slept, though, the truth didn't matter. While she slept, she was happy, she was free, and they were together. While she slept and hoped for happily ever after, Paul was nowhere in her thoughts.
He got his pants on, and buttoned his shirt. He wore the same clothes as he wore to work yesterday, when he had left work early to console her when she called him in tears. He came directly to her, not explaining to his bosses what had happened, too focused on trying to be her knight in shining armor. Now that armor was stained with her tears, and he knew he didn't deserve her affections. He had known for a long time, but that didn't make her less attractive. He knew he had flaws, despite all of her perfections, and that he would never be able to fulfill all her hopes and dreams, but he wouldn't give up, if only she would be his.
He had never told her he loved her. He relied on his actions to speak the volumes of feelings he had. It wasn't the big, sweep-her-off-her-feet actions that many men took, but simply caring and thinking of her. He'd ask her about her day, invite her to lunch or to pick up something for her. She was always in his thoughts, but he tried to limit the conversations he would start with her. Though he loved her and wanted her every moment, he wanted her to have space and freedom. So today he would give her the space she needed, along with support.
He went to the kitchen and began to make breakfast. He wasn't much of a cook, but wanted to be sure she was cared for and eating healthy. Still, a bowl of cereal would not suffice. He turned on the stove to prepare the bacon and eggs. Scrambled eggs were simple enough to make, and he seemed to remember her saying she liked them. It wasn't exactly five star dining, but it was enough to show he cared. He heard a sound from the bedroom, and went to check on her, moving the pans from the burners just in case.
There she sat, still on the bed. She was turned away from the door, her head in her hands, crying. He knew the tears she shed were not for him, and he fought the feelings of jealousy that brought.
"Olivia, I've got some eggs on the stove for you. Toaster is going, too. They should be done pretty soon. Any special requests?"
"Paul?"
"Yes. I'm here for you."
"I need you, Paul. I feel so alone."
Paul moved to the side of the bed and knelt in front of her, looking deeply into her deep-blue, tear-soaked eyes. His thoughts raced with the possibilities of what to say, but all seemed too intense, like they might scare her away. How do you tell someone that you've loved them for years? How do you say that on the far side of forever, your love will still hold strong?
"Olivia. I am here for you. If you need anything, if you want anything, just tell me," he spoke plainly, no need to burden her with his own hopes when she already had enough worries to weigh her down. She was looking back into his eyes, as if looking for a tell in poker, or really seeing him for the first time.
"Why?" It was just one word, but it took Paul off-guard.
"Excuse me?" He asked, hoping for he knew not what.
"We've known each other for half a decade, Paul. You've never been this kind to me before. It's just because he's gone, isn't it?"
"I'll be in the kitchen, I don't want your food to burn," he said. He knew the food would be fine. The reason he left the room was to hide his own tears. He had always tried to be a gentleman. She was with someone else, even if he was no good for her, so his affections hadn't been very pronounced. The one exception was within a few weeks of meeting her, when he asked her on a date and she told him she had a boyfriend. The months that followed included conversations about how her boyfriend didn't get along with her successfully, yet these same converstions brought she and Paul closer. Yet she believed Paul's kindness was new, that he hadn't made her happiness a priority. But one worry outweighed all the rest: what if she thought that he was doing this for selfish reasons? He shouldn't have slept with her last night, it only complicated things.
He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and wiped away the few tears that had fallen. He filled a plate with eggs and bacon. Adding some toast on top and a glass of orange juice, he went back to the bedroom.
"I made you breakfast, because you had still been asleep. The reason I did it is because you deserve to be treated well, and because I'd like to be the man to treat you well. I've known this for a long time, but you were with someone else. You aren't, and I don't want the regret of never having told you, of never having tried. So eat up, I'll be washing the dishes I dirtied. When I'm done, if I haven't been asked to do otherwise, I'll simply leave. But if you want to be happy, if you want someone in your life who wants you to be happy, then I am right in the kitchen. You deserve to be happy, the question is only if you want to be," and with that he turned and began to leave her bedroom.
"Paul!" She called out, and he stopped in the doorway, turning slightly back. "It's... now's just not a good time, you know?"
"No, Olive, I don't know. Because if I find a twenty dollar bill in my pocket, I am thankful to have such a great thing fall into my lap. I don't look at it and say that I've got too much on my shoulders. I let it help me take some of the weight. I hope that you allow me to be more helpful than money found on the street. I hope I mean more to you than money from the street. But again, the choice is yours, I'll be in the kitchen."

He turned on the faucet to drown out the sound of her crying, so he wouldn't have to face the fact that he had caused it. He felt guilty for it, and it had probably come off as condescending by speaking in such decisive terms, but it was a point that needed to be made. If something is a good thing, why not hold on to it? As he washed the dishes, Paul hoped she found him worth hanging on to.

She sat on her bed, thinking about what he said and the implications. Had she really been blind to his interest? Or was it that what had seemed like acts of friendship simply had ulterior motives the entire time? Was she out of a relationship that lacked trust, only to be offered another?
He was right, though. Like her father used to say, "You've gotta strike while the iron is hot." No matter if you're distracted or it isn't a good time for you, you need to take the opportunities you're given, or risk losing them forever. Yet he had waited so long for her already, why rush now?
She knew what she needed to do.

The dishes were on the drying rack, and Paul was checking Olivia's drawers for a dish towel. Her arms slid around him before he even noticed she'd entered the room.
She undid his buttons, and caressed his chest. He wasn't muscular, but he was in fairly good shape. Her arms tightened, and she pressed herself against him. She leaned her head down,pressing her ear onto him. He slowed his movements, and she listened to his heartbeat. Stable, reliable, and supportive, it was exactly what she needed more of.
"Come back to the bedroom, Paul."
"I've gotta finish the dishes, Olive."

"It's God's turn to dry. There's no rush," she said. She took his hand and led him back to the bedroom.