Nothing.

Val sighed, slipped on her headset, and pressed the message light while keeping a watchful eye on her Messenger box. Five new voicemails, two marked urgent. As she wrote down a phone number, her IM window popped open. It was Nick.

“As a matter of fact I am. What sounds good?”

Val suppressed a giggle. Recreating any portion of last’s night’s dream sounded damn good, but she messaged back, “Café Lyon?”

“Tres parfait! Wish we could have wine too.”

“Already that kind of a day?” Val typed, then set her headset on her desk. She hadn’t paid any attention to the last two messages.

“Unfortunately. Two E.R. issues before I could even make it to the break room.”

“E.R. = Emergency room?”

“Employee relations. Idiot in shipping came to work drunk, and a woman in sales left a message — something about being uncomfortable at a strip club work-sponsored event this weekend.”

“Eek!”

“Sigh.”

“Want me to bring you a cup of coffee?”

“I’d love it.”

Val noticed 47 new emails before she walked away. Nick took his coffee with no cream and two sugars she reminded herself as she pranced along the hallway.

On the way to Nick’s office, coffee in hand, Val imagined him as the CEO and her, his executive assistant. Perhaps they would need to work late, maybe getting out the board packets or tweaking a Power Point for an investor road show. They’d order in Chinese, chopsticks dancing in their hands, they’d pull lo mien noodles into their aching mouths. Talk of sick children, dry-cleaning errands, and lawns that needed to be mowed would cause them to lament over the lack of la bonne vie. Val would comment on the soreness of her feet. Nick would authoritatively suggest that she take off her heels, and like a dutiful underling she would. Empowered by her submissive tone, Nick would order her to lie down on the still leather couch in his office and would begin kneading her arches with his strong thumbs.

The office would transform into a temporal love pad, as if it were his condo, not an office high rise looking out over the lights of the city. Nick’s hands, frustrated by the slickness of Val’s nylons, would move up her thighs, tugging gently at the top of the hose, teasing her bellybutton, and gently pulling them off, letting his pinkie graze her mound as his hands slid down the soft inside of her thighs. Hose removed, Nick’s hand would scurry back up her legs, fingers dancing around her clit, priming her well.
“Ah, coffee! Thanks so much Val.” She cursed herself for not taking the long way to Nick’s office so she could let the fantasy at least reach a climax.

“I had a dream about you last night,” Val blurted out as if the tingling sensation below her waist had latched onto a secret nerve inside her that shot truth from her mouth.

“Really? Was I a voodoo doll that you were stabbing? Apparently someone else has had that thought about me recently.”

“No, it wasn’t quite like that.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“What time do you want to go to lunch?” Val asked.

“11:30? I have to be back for a 1:00 with the boss,” Nick rolled his eyes. “It’s going to be an interesting meeting after this morning’s events.”

Val was ready to sit down and soak up the details, but just as she pulled out a chair the phone rang and Nick eyed the caller I.D. He needed to take it, signaling her to shut the door behind her.

As Val started to leave, Nick placed the call on hold, reached up and gently massaged the back of her arm, “It was really sweet of you to bring me coffee.” Nick’s left eye winked just enough to send an implied signal directly to Val’s libido.

***

“So has your day gotten any better?” Val asked after the waiter seated them in a private alcove in the far part of the restaurant. She wondered how many men requested this booth on nights they chose to pop the question. Being seated there was like fate telling her it was carpe diem time.

“Yeah, one of the issues went away completely after I shot the persons involved,” Nick smiled.

“And who said that guns in the workplace were a bad idea?”

“That’s what I like about you.”

“My twisted mind?”

“Something like that.” Nick took a sip of his Arnold Palmer. Val stared at the excess liquid glistening on his lips, wishing she could wrap her lips around his and suck him dry. “So are you going to tell me about your dream, or do I have to pull it out of you?” he continued.

Blushing as if she’d had two glasses of pinot, Val looked out the window while a pair of ice cubes lingered on her tongue. The secretary/CEO fantasy continued with Nick teasing open her blazer and fondling her breasts through her silk blouse.

“Ooh, must be juicy,” Nick sang and leaned in closer.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Val laughed under her breath. She forced the fantasy to wait. “There’s a question I’ve been dying to ask you.”

“Do I get to hear about the dream?”

“Not yet.”

“But I have to answer the question?”

“Yes.”

Their waiter appeared as if he’d been eavesdropping behind the curtain, sending an uncomfortable chill through Val. He recited the day’s specials, but of course they ordered their usual dishes letting Val believe they were just another regular couple.

“Then will I get to hear about the dream?” Nick asked, once the waiter was out of earshot.

“Maybe.” Val twirled her straw around the inside rim of her water glass. She thought back to the dream — her riding him like a horse at a carnival, moving back and forth in the back seat of his car, her skirt blanketing them, the look of lust in his eyes, the giddy sensation of finally having his skin touching hers, the hard press of his penis inside her. Val wished they could skip lunch, head directly to his truck and make the dream come true.

“Hum…”

Val concentrated on ripping off a piece of bread from the loaf in front of them and set about making a dipping blend of olive oil and salt. She ate bite after bite, trying to build up the courage to initiate the conversation she really wanted to have.

“I’m waiting,” Nick cooed. He wasn’t eating.

Val nervously cocked a smile back and stuffed another hunk of bread in her mouth. Don’t fill up on carbs, some part of her brain screamed. Nick tapped his fingers on the wood veneer.

“Okay, if neither of us were married, would this still be a platonic relationship?” Val blurted out.

Silence. Unflinching, deafening silence. Their entrees arrived and Val was overjoyed to have something other than the bread as a distraction. Piercing an uncut asparagus spear with her fork, she guided it into her mouth. She couldn’t help but be seductive. A cloud of lust shrouded her brain every time she was in his presence. When she finally looked at him, he was staring into her more deeply, and with a more serious intensity then ever before. More deeply than that time when she told him she’d given notice and his eyes wouldn’t release her. Had his suppressed tears caused her to retract her resignation? Of course, but until now she never let herself admit so.

What was she doing? She shouldn’t have even gone on these lunches. Her body broke out in a chill at his stare. How would she be able to eat any of her coming entrée? The only thing she wanted in her mouth was his tongue. She should go directly to hell. Not pass Go; not collect $200 – directly to hell.

In the absence of dialogue, her mind made up responses for him. He could agree that what they had went way beyond friendship; he could tell her that she invented the whole damn scenario and that there was nothing between them. Her heart broke in anticipation of the end of a relationship that had not yet begun.

“Is this related to your dream?” he asked, finally releasing her from his gaze, and taking a sip of his soup. He shifted in his seat and Val concluded a million things from the simple movement.

She nodded as she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and then, feeling exposed, pulled it back out.

“What do you think?” he put the question right back on her, and she wondered if she had the cohones to really go through with the conversation. She ripped off another piece of bread and ate it, forgetting to dip it in the oil.

“Yes, I think we might be more than friends. I guess that would have been implied by way of me bringing it up.”

“Well, I didn’t expect the conversation to take this turn.” Nick left Val hanging, feeling like an utter fool. She hated him. No she didn’t.

“Look, just forget about it,” Val sighed, finally lifting her head and looking at him again. His eyes were back on her, and she wilted under the weight. Had she changed at all from the twelve-year-old girl who got crushes on every boy in the neighborhood?

“That takes courage. You know, to bring something like that up.”

“Please just forget about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I was just taken off guard.”

“Obviously,” Val huffed.

“Don’t get mad. “

“Look, forget it, okay. How’s your son’s asthma?”

“No.”

“No what?” Val’s glass clinked clumsily against the glass table and she could feel the other patrons’ eyes on her. She should have ordered wine. Who gave a fuck if he was H.R.? Was he going to write her up? Even that brought erotic visions to mind. Maybe she’d get a spanking too.

“No, this relationship would not remain platonic if circumstances were different. Please don’t talk about my wife or kids.”
Val’s froze.

“Valerie.” He said her full name with a comfort and ease that liquefied her. Nick grabbed her hand as if proposing — like he’d finally realized what the private booth was for. Val looked around to see if either of them knew any of the people seated near them, something she probably should have done at the start of the conversation. Subconsciously hadn’t they picked this restaurant on purpose? They’d never run into any co-workers in the year they’d been going there.

Mostly, she wondered what she’d done. She’d taken everything a step too far —a gazillion steps too far. Five minutes ago they could still pretend that they were just friends – nothing more. Now they were having some type of bizarre unconsummated love affair, consummated if you counted Val’s dream.

“What does it matter?” Val asked. Their waiter arrived with their entrees – French Dip for Nick, Salad Nicoise for Val. She cursed the waiter’s timing as Nick let go of her hands.

“You asked the question. It deserves a fair response.” Then, in a hushed tone Nick leaned across his plate and said, “Look, there’s no doubt there’s an attraction here. You and I both know it. We’ve always known it. We don’t need to talk about it, because there isn’t anything we can do about it.”

Tears fell down Val’s cheeks at the acknowledgment of the truth.

“So what do we do now?” There was no way to hold on to the emotion anymore. She was pissed that she hadn’t thought to put on waterproof mascara. Of course it would end in tears. If Nick were willing to cheat on his wife he would have jumped her by now.

“We remain friends. We go to lunch. You know — we try not to think about it.”

“We flirt?”

“Yes,” he smiled.

Val thought about her husband. Then about each of their extended families, the complexity around them, and the web of lives touched, and she began to cough.

Minutes passed. They ate in silence. Val’s mind reeled at the situation she’d just created. What would happen next? How could she not act on her feelings? How many more erotic dreams could she tolerate? Then she had a thought.

“So I have an idea,” Val blurted out.

“Yes?” Nick’s eyes lifted and his smile perked back up into the flirt zone.

“We can have an affair over I.M. We’ll pick fake names, so it will be our characters having an affair. “

He snickered and looked around at the other diners.

“You have to admit. It’s pretty original,” Val took her tone down a notch.

“That it is,” Nick rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on. Live a little.”

“It could be fun.”

Val thought back to how many such e-mails they’d already exchanged.

“It could be a devilishly good time.”

“You’re bad!”

“You don’t even know. But you could find out.”

“Okay, I’m in. But aliases are a must. “

“Deal. What do you want your name to be?”

“How about…Walter.”

“No! I’m not having an affair with someone named Walter.”

“No, you’re not…Gretchen is!”

“No, no, no,” Val shook her head in laughter. “How about Daniel and Sylvia?”

“Daniel is a wimp name, and Sylvia is just as much a grandma as Gretchen.”

“Tell you what,” Val began. “When you I.M. me next, you have to use your character’s name – figure out what it is and I’ll figure out what mine is.”

“Okay.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“Careful,” Nick warned.

“Oh no — careful’s all over.”

When the waiter returned Val asked for the dessert menu and Nick looked at her in surprise. Indulgence time was near.

(Header Photo Credit: Rebecca Wachtel)

<Samantha Haven loves to study the human mind, heart and the body’s sexual organs. Thinking of the way a piece of chocolate melts on a tongue and oozes around teeth gets her typing fingers going. Samantha prefers bondage that involves silk scarves to handcuffs, and always baths in candlelight. She is on a literary quest to find the betwixt and between where fiction ends and erotica begins. Samantha is the Short Stories Editor at Pink Nighties.

It was cold in the high-ceilinged bedroom, so Gabrielle wrapped herself in the heavy terry cloth robe she’d discovered hanging on the bathroom door and walked into the living room. She poured herself a glass of the expensive champagne she’d swiped from an ex-boyfriend’s apartment. With all the wild nights of sex she’d provided for him, she felt she deserved it.

Max Carson was more than twice her age, but Gabrielle wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship, just a sort of sugar daddy to indulge her until her next conquest. This night of passion was her way of repaying Max for the lucrative two year contract she’d signed earlier that afternoon. If things went the way she hoped tonight, maybe she could get him to extend it to four years. As part of the team hired to boost sales at Carson Cruises, Gabrielle was more than ready to act as a personal tour guide on the renowned Carson Cruises for years to come.

While she sipped her champagne, Gabrielle thought of poor little plain Jane, the only staff member from the old regime that Max had insisted on retaining. Gabrielle made a mental note to have Jane’s cubicle moved to the back room. Her dowdy appearance would never fit in with the sexy motif Gabrielle had planned for the front office. From now on, it was hello cleavage and thigh length skirts and goodbye loose fitting jumpers and Birkenstocks.

Gabrielle walked back into the bedroom. She’d decided to change into the flesh colored teddy. The red bikini could wait for another night, hopefully one in a more exciting and warmer venue such as Max’s cabin on one of his liners. The Park Avenue apartment was gorgeous but a little too dark and gloomy for Gabrielle’s taste. If Max ever suggested setting her up in a little something, she hoped she could talk him into that little something being a cozy little walk-up in the Village.

Gabrielle started to shake whenever she heard footsteps in the hall. She tried to blame her case of nerves on first night jitters and not on Max’s reaction when he found her in his apartment. So far, she hadn’t come up with a good reason for having his spare key in her possession. She was banking on his becoming so horny when he found her here that he’d find her thievery from his desk drawer, the one marked PRIVATE, amusing.

When she heard footsteps slow down and stop outside the door, Gabrielle almost jumped out of her skin. But she calmed down enough to throw open both the door and the robe at the same time. But the person at the door wasn’t Max. It was Jane.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jane, walking into the living room and placing a Victoria’s Secret bag on the couch.

“Waiting for Max. What do you think I’m doing? We have a date.”

“No you don’t,” laughed Jane. “Max and I just finished dinner. He’ll be up as soon as he parks the car. How did you get in?”

“He gave me a key.”

“Well, if Max was planning a menage a trois for this evening, he must have forgotten to mention it.”

“That must be it.”

“Right! Now tell the truth. Where did you get the key?”

“I took it from Max’s desk drawer.” Then, with a nervous giggle, she said, “Since I’m already here, maybe we could arrange a threesome.”

“I don’t think so. You’re not exactly our type. Jazzing up the office with floozies is one thing but screwing them is another.”

“Do you and Max live together?”

“In a manner of speaking,” laughed Jane, pointing to the Victoria’s Secret bag. “But we like our space.”

“Where do you live?”

“In a cozy little walk-up in the Village. Max bought it for me a couple of years ago.”

“Are you going to tell Max what I did?”

“Not if you get dressed and get your sorry ass out of here before I count to a hundred. Even plain Janes like me have their boiling points.”

A few minutes later, Gabrielle walked out of the bedroom fully clothed. Jane handed her the open bottle of champagne. “Take this with you. It’s not our brand.”

“Will I have to resign?”

“Unless you want me to make your life a living hell.”

“Would you do that?”

“An eye for an eye, Gabrielle! Now get out of here before I throw you out.”

Jane walked over to the living room window and watched Gabrielle get into a taxi. Then she picked up the Victoria’s Secret bag and walked into the bedroom.

Jean Gillespie alternates the settings of her novels between her current home in northern West Virginia and her native Scotland. Her first novel, A DEATH ON FACULTY ROW is set in West Virginia while SECRETS OF THE POWMILLON, takes place in a fictionalized version of her Scottish hometown. She is currently hard at work on her second West Virginia novel, THE SCHOOL ON THE HILL. Jean is also an avid short story writer. She lives outside Wheeling, West Virginia with her husband, Frank, a retired college administrator, and Angus, a Scottish deerhound which she fondly refers to as the great hairy beast. Four adult children have fled the nest and live in terror of being mentioned in their mother’s literary endeavors.

Gwen drove north, wandering the pine-flanked roads in the rust colored sedan. Dark birds eyed her suspiciously from tree boughs, and when Gwen veered off the main road, she found it. Evening was warned off by the red neon light, cursive lines coiling up to spell The Lucky Lady like it was all one word. Right off the highway, semis parked in jagged rows out back and she also noticed all of the corroded motorcycles and battered pickup trucks. It seemed clear, this was the territory of men, but a hunger compelled her to surrender her assumptions and enter the parking lot anyway.

There was a moment, like there are always moments, where she felt herself hesitate before going inside, teetering on the wire between two vast plunging possibilities. Outside The Lucky Lady, Gwen sat in her old car with her old life littered over the highway and one foot tapped the gas pedal impatiently, willing her to return to the safety of her back porch and the stars. The other, that brazen other one, saw salvation flickering in the neon “GIRLS-GIRLS-GIRLS.” She remembered Joe calling her frigid and the past sexless year of marriage. She thought of every man who ever looked her over and passed right by. Gwen realized that when her children began, she suddenly had ended. No one ever told her it would be that way, but it was.

Giving up her clothes, baring her body in the stage lights might be just another sacrifice. But, she knew she would reap some momentary pleasure in the exposure. She paused in the neon glow for only a heartbeat more and then, moth to flame, singed wings be damned, Gwen parked and marched across the parking lot to the dancer entrance.

The bouncer stopped her, “Other entrance for the applicants, honey.”

She smiled, lies rolling off her tongue, “I’m just gonna watch before my interview to get a sense of things, you know?”

He nodded and steered her through the plush velvet walls to a private booth where she could see the main stage from the shadows. There, finally, her heart raced-applicant? Gwen might have laughed if the waitress hadn’t materialized in black thigh high stockings and five-inch stilettos.

“You eatin or watchin, mama?”

“Both,” she said, reaching for the menu. The waitress didn’t seem surprised to see a woman there alone. Nothing like the strip club Joe took her to when they first married. She couldn’t get in without him and this had incensed her more than the leering men with their gold wedding bands flashing in the stage lights as they stuffed dollar bills into random g-strings.

“Take your time,” the waitress said, slipping off. Gwen glanced at the menu only until the lights flashed on and the music started. When a dark haired girl in a red 1950’s bathing suit came onstage, she held her breath, lost in the woman’s dancing. Her sexy heels, the pin-curled hair she shook loose, the way the frumpy suit slowly came untied and undone around her waist. It was all seamless. The dancer knew her routine and the men audibly gasped when she bent over to ease the bottoms off over her shiny red shoes. She left her cat’s eye sunglasses on and worked her way over to the chrome pole in a velvet g-string and high heels. Gwen didn’t notice the waitress watching her.

“Yeah…Candy’s been at this a really long time. Don’t let her make you too nervous.”

“What?” She looked at the girl, who shrugged in response.

“I mean during your audition. Candy is a vintage vixen-she’s been stripping for, like, twenty years or something. You ready to order?” The girl said this all in one breath and Gwen pointed blindly to the menu.

“How old is she?”

The waitress took the menu, jotting the order down, “I dunno. Forty or somethin?”

“Where the hell are all of the eighteen year olds?”

The girl smiled, “Oh, just wait, we have them too. But, Randy-you’re interviewing with Randy right? Well he says some guys want the hot mom next door. You know, the vintage vixens. The Lucky Lady is the only place who’s got em!” She leaned in so closely Gwen breathed her musk and patchouli, “No offense, but that’ll be you too, right?”

“What else?” She shrugged, transfixed by the waitress’ shiny micro-mini and the prominently displayed sacred heart tattooed on her right breast.

“Well, you’re a beautiful lady, so you’ll have no trouble,” and she flashed a grin as she walked away. Gwen glanced at Candy as she crawled from the pole to the men ringing the stage with money in their hands. Now that she really looked, Gwen could see the age on Candy’s face, the command of her body that showed her experience. Some things just couldn’t be faked.

Candy disappeared with a solid round of applause and catcalls, and then a barely legal blonde called LeeLee took the stage. Her silicone breasts could hardly be contained by her black pleather bustier. But, they didn’t have to for long. This was the dancer Gwen had expected. She chugged her beer and waited impatiently for the food.

Her head was swimming with the rapid intake of alcohol, something else her body had forgotten. In between dancer sets, Gwen watched the men. How utterly unremarkable they were, how bored looking. They could be anywhere, that much she could tell. These naked girls were just a series of nesting dolls, one inside the next and the next and as long as they were painted in bright reds and bold strokes-interchangeable. Gwen tried to imagine herself reflecting over the polished stage, her body wooden, caressed by color. It made her laugh. Right until a man walked over carrying Gwen’s food and another Corona.

“I heard I had a lovely applicant out here-I’m glad to meet you. My name is Randy Ross.”

“Oh,” she put her hand out to shake his. It was silly and thrilling and outrageous all at once and then he said,

“Do you want to keep watching or should we go over details and salary stuff in the office?”

Here was where Gwen should have confessed that she wasn’t really there for a job, that she was shocked at herself just for being there. She should have mentioned that she was a school therapist with nearly grown kids, for God’s sake, not a dancer. It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that she had run away from something only to have it chase her down again in every silent moment. But, she didn’t. She pounded her entire second beer instead.

The siren song leading her to The Lady in the first place led right into his office and led her to sign papers and to put on a bikini right there for Randy and his assistant, Dawn.

“Wow,” Dawn said appreciatively when Gwen emerged from the dressing room teetering and half drunk on borrowed high heels. Randy smiled at her,

“When do you want to start?”

Gwen navigated her way back to the houseboat that night and climbed aboard, stifling giggles and errant empty tears. She sat in faded jeans and cotton shirt on the foredeck until the sky went violet with light. By morning, she wasn’t laughing anymore. The image of Candy in profile, owning every one of her forty- plus years in sensuous power roared right through her. Gwen decided on her Lucky Lady name, Summer. She silently ran her fingertips over her body, dowsing the forgotten skin for secret floods of rhythm just waiting to surge across the main stage.

C. Delia Scarpitti Columns Editor of Literary Mama Magazine, is a freelance writer, teacher and poet. Her poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, and reviews have appeared in a variety of online and print publications, including Mothering Magazine, The We’Moon Anthology: Love, SageWoman Magazine, Literary Mama Magazine, Mamazine.com, Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine, MotherVerse Magazine, The Apple Valley Review, Flashquake, and Natural Family Magazine. She is the 2008 recipient of an Emerging Artist in Fiction Grant from her home state where she writes her novel, dreams of poetry and maintains her website: www.cdeliascarpitti.com.br class=”clear”>

Her rescuer came from behind, she didn’t see him till he spoke.

“Alone again, are we?”

She turned around and gazed into the green eyes that were watching her with pity, she thought.

“Alone again. That’s me,” she said defiantly, feeling ashamed for being discovered in her loneliness. Clive was her husband’s childhood friend. She often saw him at informal meetings and dinners and he was always there when she needed a favour. He was here now.

“Want a drink?” She nodded and he strolled to the bar to order a martini rosso on the rocks he knew she liked best.
She watched his figure as he cruised among the sweated bodies on the dance floor. His body was tall and lean. One of his hands in the tuxedo pocket. His hair dark, almost black. When he leaned onto the bar to get the order to the waiter through the noise of the music and talk, she studied his handsome face. She had felt attracted to him from the first moment she laid eyes on him. But she had chosen Jeff over him because she believed him to be the better man.

She blushed when she saw he caught her staring at him. She sipped the martini while he had a scotch. They were sitting at a side table, hidden behind an enormous plant. She searched for her husband. He didn’t even bother to check on her to see whether she was flirting with someone. He sat with some men and two women at a bigger table quite far away. He was leaning onto the table, but he barely had enough space to prop his elbows onto the surface amongst the half empty glasses of drinks. She suddenly wondered if one of the women might be his lover. But she instantly dismissed the thought. She didn’t want to know.

“A penny for your thoughts.” She smiled trying to charm him, but he seemed not to notice. He turned around and scanned the crowd. “Where’s Jeff?”She gestured with her head.

“He seems busy.” A silence fell over them like every time they brought up the subject of her husband.

“Clive, I know I’m a bother, but would it be too much to ask you to get me home. There is really nothing keeping me here and I’m tired.” It was high time she learned to drive. But not having a driver’s licence meant that she got to be alone with Clive every now and then.

“No bother at all, Mary. But are you sure?”

She nodded.

“You want to let Jeff know you’re leaving?”

“No. He won’t notice, anyway.”

“Now, that’s…”

“The truth,” she ended the sentence for him.

He frowned at her and she looked away because she couldn’t afford to lose her last ally. They were silent the whole ride home. When she unlocked the door he entered without asking for permission. She poured them both another drink although he still had to drive home. They sat on the couch. She felt warm because of his presence. She wanted to kick off her pumps, lean her head on his shoulder and relax into his rich male scent.

“So what’s up with you two?” he finally spoke.

“What do you mean?”

She knew well what he meant but didn’t want to admit to him that her marriage was in shreds after only six years and wasn’t even worth talking about.

“Do you think there will always be someone there to drive you home or to rescue you from an unsuccessful party after your husband has deserted you?”

She resented him for reminding her of how much she needed him.

“If it was a bother you should have said so.”

“It’s not a bother. I just won’t be here forever.” His voice was a little angry, she realised astounded.

“You won’t?” She made it sound really incredulous but not mockingly so.

“No. I won’t.” After a pause he continued. “What if I get married? I won’t be able to run after you and fulfil your needs.”

“Married?” She almost choked on the word.

“What? Is it so unbelievable that I could get married?” His sarcastic smile couldn’t hide that he was offended.

“No, that’s not that what I meant.”

“What did you mean then? What do you mean?” He pronounced each word distinctly as if speaking to a child.

“Oh – just forget it. I’m confused and tired. I didn’t mean anything.” It was hard to admit she wanted him to be there forever. Just for her and her needs. She didn’t want him to get married, she didn’t even want him to fall in love with another woman. But she wasn’t a girl of four anymore to be able to demand everyone’s undivided attention. She was a grown woman and she was supposed to know how to live, how to be lonely and how to cope with the vacuum in the wake of her dysfunctional marriage.

It was three in the morning. She was still in her black evening dress. Heat was getting into her head. She drank too much and she desired the man beside her too much to remain calm. She put her glass down onto the coffee table, the ice cubes clinked as her hand trembled. Without a word she turned towards the bedroom. She left the bedroom door open; her audacity surprised her, but it also spurred her on. She turned on the lights. She caressed her belly with the tips of her fingers and wanted his hand to be there. She lifted the hem of the dress and pulled it over her head. She observed herself in the mirror. She wasn’t bad for her age. She was still firm and her skin was soft and silky. All she needed was a confirmation from a man. She wanted to be admired and desired again. After so many years of blank stares and indifferent shoulders.

Before she realized it she was standing in the doorway and Clive stood in the living room, watching her. He seemed surprised, maybe even threatened, but he didn’t say a word. She caressed the black negligee. She noticed his eyes became warmer, not in a friendly manner. He seemed like he stood too close to a fireplace and got hot.

She knew she should stop, make the few steps back into the bedroom, blaming it all on her confusion and exhaustion, and close the door on her folly. But that thought was so tiny in the vastness of her need to be recognized as a woman, to be loved.

“Mary, you better go to bed. I’ll lock up for you,” he said, his patronizing tone irritating her. He put down his glass, almost empty. The soft clank! on the glass surface of the coffee table was like a latch falling into position, locking her hesitance and insecurity behind firm doors.

“Funny how you treat me like I’m a child.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t you see a woman in me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Clive?”

He turned away from her. She began to feel a knot in her stomach. She was terrified he would turn her down. Humiliate her, so she would never be able to look into his green eyes again. When still he didn’t turn, she called his name again.
She lifted the hem of her negligée. He could see the whole length of her slim legs.

“Mary, please. You’ll be sorry in the morning.”

“Only if you reject me.”

“You drank too much and so did I.”

“I’m sober. Except for the need I feel for a man’s touch.”

He was desperate. His hands fell at the sides of his body like he gave up. Always so confident and strong, he now looked scared.

“Am I so repulsive you can’t even look at me?” she almost cried.

“You’re not repulsive, you know that.”

He came closer and turned her towards the bedroom.

“I don’t know that because no one is telling me that.” She stubbornly pushed him back when they reached the bed.

“I’m sure Jeff is …”

“You know shit about Jeff.”

She deliberately left the straps fall from her shoulders. Her heavy breasts were the only thing holding her negligee up.
She touched them with her palms and whispered, “I almost ache for you to touch me, Clive.” Her voice scraped through the silence.

“We can’t do this to Jeff.”

His resistance seemed to be melting at the sight of lust in her eyes.

“Oh, to hell with Jeff! He hasn’t touched me in years.”

His expression went from hot to stunned.

“What?”

“You heard me. He hasn’t touched me since that time I caught him with Janice in the toilet at the firm.”

“Three years?” Clive stammered.

She didn’t want to think about it. She had had to deal with too many rejections in her life. “Clive?” She sat on the bed and offered him a glimpse of the inner sides of her soft thighs. He was sweating in his tuxedo. He removed the jacket.

“Mary, I still think you could talk this out. With Jeff, I mean.”

“I don’t want to talk. Clive, I haven’t had sex for three years. How do you think I feel when I have to watch you every day so close to me, so bloody handsome. For seven years. Every muscle in my body got used to getting tense every time you came close. So firm and reassuring. I wanted to touch you times and again. And when we danced! It felt like you were deliberately torturing me!” She almost yelled at him.

“Shh,” he touched her shoulder to calm her but the feel of his fingers on her skin burned her. She pleaded him with her eyes, he could see the desire in her face but he refused to interpret it the way she wanted him to.

“I can’t do this, Mary,” he sighed and removed his hand from her hot skin. He made a step back.

“Why? Why?” she hiccupped amidst her hot tears.

He shook his head and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. When he looked at her again, he slowly said, “I care too much about you. And Jeff.”

He picked up his tuxedo and left her alone in the room. She heard the front door close. Silence fell on the room, an empties she was sure she could touch if she had the strength to move her arm. She was hiccupping from her crying, which only added to her humiliation. Maybe she deserved this if she wasn’t capable of acting like an adult. Maybe she was being punished for not trying harder with Jeff. Maybe. But it still hurt!

An hour later, she heard the door open again when her husband came home.

She crawled into bed, wiping her smudged mascara into the white pillow.

It wasn’t until she watched Jeff undress in the mirror, seeing his muscled, tanned back and naked legs and not feeling anything, that she realized what she felt for Clive was more than lust. Jeff slid between the sheets, not sparing her a single glance or word. She loudly sniffled back her tears to remind him of her presence. Nothing. Ten seconds later his breathing slowed, he was asleep. And she had thought she married the better man.

Brigita Pavshich I enjoy morning coffee, writing, and walking in the rain. I work as a translator. My stories have been published in All Things Girl and Your Messages collection. My great wish is to write a film script one day. www.pausesbetweenthenotes.com

Seems he and his young partner got called to “calm down a crazy lady” in a domestic dispute. Uh oh. That means trouble. They’ve had more than their share of couple-quarrels and haven’t always handled them well. Looks like they get one more chance.

They pull quietly in front of the house, no lights or sirens announce their presence. They place themselves on either side of the doorway, ring the bell, wait. Feet take their time shuffling to the door. It opens. Alcohol fumes and old sweat swamp the officers. A woman more fifty than thirty slumps against the frame, faded blond hair straggling around a face that’s seen too many bleary mornings. She wears nothing but skin, except for the blue chenille belt of a missing bathrobe knotted around her waist, dangling almost to the floor. And her forehead, painted red and ready to go.

Pierce and Martinez look at each other. Uh oh, again. They are polite. “May we come in, ma’am?”

Sure. She moves aside.

The men enter the hall, try not to brush against her. She wobbles as the slender Martinez edges past, giggles, grabs at him but gets woodwork instead. He hisses in relief.

Pierce says, “What seems to be the matter, ma’am?”

Fuzzy look. “I don’t know. Why you here?” More fuzz.

A gravelly voice calls from the back room, “Let ‘em in, Stella.”

She moves aside. Shoves her arm out, lets them know it’s okay to move into the living room. The male voice from beyond keeps talking, asking questions, wondering what’s going on. Stella doesn’t seem to know. Her eyes roam, she mouths mumbles that don’t say anything. The deputies trade raised eyebrows. Martinez tries this time. His deep brown eyes and sympathetic smile usually get results. “What’s the trouble, ma’am?”

At this, the man in the back room bellows, “Took you long enough to get here. She’s crazy. This broad flipped out. Knocked me over, hit me with a bottle. A full one.” The complaint is still in his voice. “I need help.” He moans to emphasize his pain. The officers move to the bedroom door.

Stella seems to recall her manners. She plants her feet wide, twiddles her blue belt, gestures them graciously ahead of her. They step carefully through the door. A middle-aged man, skinny but with an impressive beer belly, huddles on the floor under the window, a cut on his scalp trailing red ribbons. His leg buckles under him at a funny angle, both hands pillow his head. He moans two or three more times.

Stella rushes at him. Kicks his twisted leg viciously, screams, “Lying bucket of fish slime! Do that to me, will you?” She kicks him again, arms flailing. Off balance, she starts to sway.

“Hey, lady,” Martinez jumps, grabs her arm.

She whirls around, rakes his face with her fingernails and laughs in a high-pitched cackle. She throws herself on the bed. Giggles. “Come and get me, boys.”

Spreading her legs apart, she rubs frantic fingers all over the pubic hair and makes strange noises in a parody of desire.
The deputies turn toward each other and groan. The man on the floor groans, too. “She’s nuts. I’ve been screaming ever since she decked me, guess a neighbor called you guys. Get her out of here, won’t you?”

He turns beseeching eyes toward the authorities. The woman on the bed mutters to herself, twitches her hips invitingly.
Pierce and Martinez look at each other again, shrug and move to the bed, one on each side. The senior man, the one with graying sideburns and experience, starts the soothing nonsense meant to quiet her down. They take her arms above the elbow.

At their touch, she erupts into a screeching volcano of action. Twists, bounces, kicks wildly. Long legs flash a lifetime of rage.

The men, startled out of their grips, grab at her. Hands slip on sweaty, oiled skin. Another grab, they catch flab. Uh oh, gone again. She shrieks molestation.

Martinez pins one elbow just as Stella looses a mighty leap. Her legs fly straight up from her hips. Toes smash into Pierce’s neck, snap his head back on his spine, ram his Adam’s apple. The senior cop’s eyes glaze, he topples. Stella howls a witch’s hunting song, gets her nails into play. Martinez abandons procedure and pounces on her stomach. Blue chenille cords fly, the woman under him squirms like eels in a basket, and the young cop wonders, “Now what?”

On the other side of the bed, beyond the downed Pierce, the skinny man snores on a raft of beer breath. Martinez sprawls on Stella, sheer weight alone pressing her flat. Lifts his head to behold a curious neighbor, whiskery jaw agape and leaning in the window. He pants to the fascinated audience, “Don’t just stand there. Call the cops!”

Months later, after hearings and catcalls and a highly embarrassing series in the local paper, Pierce and Martinez find themselves looking for work. On the rare occasions their paths cross, they smile sourly and one invariably asks, “Where the hell do you grab a naked lady?”

(Header Photo Credit: Lorissa Sheptone)

Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Voices on the Land, and End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Her website is www.wellinghamjones.com.

Thought she’d held up well
no stormy tears or pleading sighs
Those never held him before

This time was different
he’d never enter her house again
This time he wore a shiny gold band
mumbled about Elaine

Her outraged heart screamed
You didn’t suffer long enough
She fluttered her fingers at his retreating self
He didn’t wave back

It’s the men that really do it for me: the homeless guy with the world’s troubles in his eyes and the voice that sounds like old paper and bad jazz, the art student with his bright-hued blue hair and matching sketchbook who pays in paint-stained bills, the endless assortment of musicians and crafters who wander over from the park across the street where there is some kind of faire or celebration, with their vintage clothes and battered knapsacks, the engineering students who are attractive behind their shiny calculators, geeky glasses, and expensive laptop screens. All have their charms. In any given week, I’ll meet the eyes of five or six different guys across the counter, touch their fingers as I take their money, and give back a tiny piece of my heart with their change.

And then I met her.

It was during an afternoon lull, of the kind we always have around three in the afternoon, when the office-y types had gone back to their cubicles, and the students weren’t yet finished with classes. I was alone behind the bar, enjoying an ancient Enigma CD playing over the sound system, and cleaning the copper of the espresso machine in time with the beat, when the bell on the green front door jingled, and she came in.

If I’d had a camera I’d have snapped her picture. Instead, I have her image engraved on my soul: Her long golden-brown hair was left loose, sun-dried and crackling with static electricity, the ends swishing against the bare skin of her tanned shoulders, and bits of it getting caught in the spaghetti straps of her yellow and orange tank top. Her skirts swirled in a blur of red and orange, the bells on the drawstring waistband jingling softly as she moved. Her feet were wrapped in brown leather, chunky sandals with sturdy rubber soles. A person could do serious walking in those shoes, and from the dust on them, it was obvious that she didn’t wear them just for show. The Mala beads on her right wrist exuded the faintest scent of patchouli, or maybe it was her skin that smelled of it.

She ordered chai, the spiced sweetened tea that I’d come to prefer over espresso myself. We blend our own, every morning, and keep it in a big glass cider jug with cinnamon sticks and cardamom heads floating in it.

“Do you want regular milk in that, or would you prefer soy?” I asked, both as a service and as a test. Her bright clothing marked her as someone like me - someone who belonged among the street gypsies who liked people but were content to be alone among crowds if the mood fit.

“Soy, if you have it,” she said. Her voice had the telltale rasp of a smoker, or rather, the beginning of one. Most people would never have noticed, but I’m a singer, and I hear what other people don’t.

I nodded. “Chai tastes smoother that way, don’t you think?”

She smiled. “Truly.”

I moved behind the tall copper espresso machine to steam the tea and froth the soymilk to blend with it. “Is this for here, or to go?” I asked, as the pitch changed in the frothing pitcher. Other people watch the thermometers we place in each of the metal containers, but I can tell by the pitch if the milk is “done.”

“I heard you sing at the Beat the other night,” she informs me, instead of answering the question.

I’m not sure how to respond to that, exactly, so I just say, “Oh?”

“You were good. I could see the story in your head, when you were singing. I came to find out what it was.” I wanted to blush, and shuffle my feet and stammer like a thirteen-year-old girl on her first date, but I was holding a pitcher of hot soymilk. I opened my mouth to offer some other one-syllable comment, but she spoke again. “If I have my drink here, will you tell me?”

I poured the chai and hot milk into one of our ceramic mugs and set it on the counter, with the handle facing out. “Three dollars,” I told her. “I have to watch the door.”

She bent her head to look inside the leather satchel she was carrying - one of those teardrop duffle-type bags on a leather thong that hippies carry in movies, even though they cost a couple hundred dollars in real life. I was jarred from a moment of bag-lust by her scent, still patchouli, but now there were cloves and ash as well, probably from the cigarettes she smoked. I remembered smoking cloves with my best girlfriends on the beach the summer before, and smiled at the memory and the woman across the counter.

She pressed four rumpled dollar bills into my hand, and my skin tingled. “Keep the change,” she said. She settled herself at the table directly across from the door then glanced back at me. “I’m not leaving,” she said, “until I hear your story.”

It was a hot day. Unseasonably warm for October, even in California, and I knew there wouldn’t be many more customers until the sun went down. “Alright,” I said. I steamed another pitcher of tea and soymilk for myself, smoothed my hair, wiped my hands on the blue apron I was wearing, and took the chair across from her.

The conversation was awkward, at first. She asked me if I liked working in the café, and I answered that I did, and then we were quiet. I looked into my cup as if the foam would give me a clue what to say, and when it didn’t I looked up again, and met her eyes. They were the color of bittersweet chocolate, and they compelled me to open up.

“The thing about working here,” I said, “is that I get to see into people’s lives the way hair stylists do, but without the ammonia and aerosol.”

“Do you fall in love with your customers?” she asked.

“Only all the time,” I answered with a grin. She returned the gesture but waited silently, while I sorted out what to say next. “There’s this man who comes in every morning.” I began. “He has a five-year-old daughter, and she skips beside him, and he holds her hand.”

“Go on,” she prompted.

“He’s divorced. About forty. Way too old for me.”

“But you want him.” She grinned when she said it.

“I can’t help it,” I admitted. “His hands are strong, and warm, but rough, as if he does woodwork or something. He always wears chambray shirts on Fridays, and the blue matches his eyes exactly. He drinks double cappuccinos, very dry, dash of cinnamon, and has a plain croissant. His daughter has a slice of banana bread and a cup of hot chocolate, even in summer.”

“What’s his name?”

I blinked at her, feeling suddenly stupid. “I have no idea,” I confessed. I didn’t know any of their names, but I knew their usual drinks, and whether they preferred paperback novels, magazines or the morning paper, and what colors made them happiest.

“But you like his hands,” she prompted.

I blushed but responded to the prompting. “I do. I pay a lot of attention to hands. Hands and eyes.”

“What’s special about hands?”

“They tell stories,” I said. Our eyes met across the table as the connection was made, and we both laughed. She arched her brows at me and I expanded my statement. “You can mask your feelings by schooling your face, keeping your expression neutral, but your hands give you away. Calluses, manicures, they all betray your truth. Lawyers never have particularly strong hands, for example, but construction workers do.”

“And writers’ hands are stained with ink?” She said it with humor in her eyes and voice.

“Actually no,” I replied. “Most of them use computers these days. I suppose they might have flattened finger-tips, but it makes them indistinguishable from secretaries, for the most part.”

“Good point,” she agreed. She picked up her mug, swirling the liquid inside it before taking a sip, then set it down, and spread both of her hands on the table, palms down.

“And my hands?” she asked.

I blushed faintly, but turned my attention to her hands. They were feminine, with neat oval nails - buffed, not polished - but also strong, and tanned from the sun. I reached out and rested my hands on top of hers, meeting her eyes. Then I pulled back a little, and turned her hands over on the table, to study her palms.

“Are you going to read my fortune?” she asked, only half-teasing.

“You will meet a woman who smells of coffee and cloves…” I intoned in a fake-Gypsy accent, but then I rested my hands atop hers again, palm to palm, with my fingers curving over her wrists, settling over the pulse points. “You’re a creative spirit,” I said softly. “An artist, inside if not in fact.”

I looked up again and found that she was staring at me very intently. In that moment I knew I wanted to kiss her, and that she wanted the same, but as we were both stretching our bodies upward the door opened and one of the professors from the university came in for her half-calf cappuccino to go (no surprise that she was from the business school) and the mood was broken.

After serving my customer I returned to the table, but this time we spoke of inconsequential things: music we both liked, chocolate recipes that ought to be illegal, favorite elementary school teachers. I never gave her a linear version of my history, but I think she got the overall picture of who I was: barista, singer, wannabe street gypsy who kept letting her sensible side hold her back.

We talked until Raul and Charlie - the evening crew - arrived to relieve me, and then the awkwardness was back. “I should go…” I began, standing up. “My shift is over…”

“It’s no problem,” she told me, standing up as well. “Good chai,” she said. “Good story. I’ll be at the Beat when you sing there next week.”

I leaned forward to pick up our mugs, but her hand stilled mine. “What?” I looked up, and our eyes met again, and I suddenly wondered if she tasted like cloves, as well as smelling like them.

Our kiss was intense, but too brief, though her thumb caressed the back of my hand, and her soft hair whispered promises against my cheek. The jingling of the front door broke the moment, and the mood, and she stepped away from me with a wry smile on her face.

Raul handled the new customer while Charlie put new votives in the candle holders on every table. When he got to the one where I was still standing, he tapped me on the shoulder. “I thought you drove stick,” he said.

I rolled my eyes at him. “You’re still jealous because I danced with Raul and not you at the beach party last month,” I said.

“Maybe,” he agreed cheerfully. “What’s her name?”

I picked up the mugs that were still on the table, and turned hers to see the faint trace of bronze lipstick on the rim. “I have no idea,” I said, as I walked toward the kitchen, smiling. I made a note to ask her the next time I saw her. In the meantime, it was enough that I knew her drink.

Freelance writer, blogger, improv comedian, and caffeine addict, Melissa A.Bartell writes in her pajamas most of the time. Her previous incarnations include amateur cellist, mortgage underwriter, and cafe barista. She shares her home with her husband and two dogs, and likes froufrou pink drinks, dark chocolate, and microbrew beer. Her website is www.melissabartell.com.

The moon rises and she thinks of him.
The sky deepens to a cool shade of onyx
and she thinks of him. Her thoughts rise
through the silence to cling to the soft belly
of heaven. Stars shine like a poets phrase
and she thinks of him. She lets no feeling
pass without directing it at his pink heart.
He sits in a room across town attuned
to a new rhythm, like leaves rustling.
Leaves rustling inside him.

Lisa Zaran is an American poet, essayist, occasional interviewer and the author of six collections. Her first book, the sometimes girl, was recently the focus of a year long translation course in Germany. She is the founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices, an online journal of poetry, which has now been approved to be used as the subject of study for a translation course in Germany.

“Who wants me?”

“It’s me babe. I’m sorry.” The voice brought up her first wave of hang-over induced nausea. She should have known better than to trust that weasely, high-pitched, namby-pamby, son of a bitch. “I’m at the coffee shop, come on down,” he continued as if Jackie were just sitting around waiting for him. As if she didn’t have anything better to do than to cater to his sorry ass.

“We are so over.”

“Please come down.”

“You come up.”

“I come up and you’re gonna’ kill me.”

“Maybe.” Jackie threw the rag behind the bar, unintentionally sending a martini glass off balance and crashing to the floor.

“It was all a mistake. I can explain everything,” the voice begged. She liked it when they begged.

“I have her lighter.” Jackie rolled a stray toothpick around her tongue. She could just picture him at the other end of the phone, shaking. His baby blues must be scanning the street, wondering how his life had turned to this - begging for mercy in a phone booth, outside a coffee shop, on a street in New York. The thought brought an evil form of happiness to Jackie.
“Baby, baby…”

“Cut the crap Johnny!” I saw you fucking her!” Jackie downed the scotch and slammed down the phone. It rang again. She answered it.

“Honey just come see me. I know we can work it out.”

“I don’t want your apologies and I don’t want your explanations. I want you and your bimbo Queenie to get the fuck out of town before I have the both of yous killed. Nobody fucks around on me Johnny, nobody.” The last sentence she forced through her lungs with a practice she had perfected. The words hung in the air; fucks, killed, bimbo – they made-out together– forming a festering cloud of smut. This time she hung up for good and poured herself another glass.

Jackie wandered over to the window and sure enough Johnny was standing below looking for her. They stood that way for a moment, before Johnny took off running. Jackie sauntered back to the bar, clutching her forehead and smiling as a massive headache slowly numbed into a beautiful drunken buzz.

Grabbing her crystal encrusted Tiffany’s telephone dialer, she rang Vinny.

“Jackie baby, is that you?” Vinny barked in the gruff way he always does like a guard dog at a junkyard, smoothing her jangled nerves like calamine.

“Yeah. It’s Johnny,” she said still fingering the lighter, knowing her tone revealed the entire story to Vinny.

“Mother fucker! I told that prick to be careful.”

“Apparently his ears are broken.”

“I’ll have my men on it pronto. Nobody disgraces my baby cousin. Nobody.”

“I’ve got her lighter.” Jackie’s eyes glazed over.

“He’s history baby. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Thanks Vinny. You’re the best.”

“Always.”

As the next morning’s sun pierced through the slit between her curtains, Jackie rolled out of bed and lit a cigarette. Gathering her top sheet around her naked body, she opened her apartment door and picked up the morning paper. Jackie flung it on the kitchen table, and served herself another breakfast of scotch on the rocks. Sitting at the table, glass in hand, Jackie turned straight to the blotter. Sure enough there was the police report - Johnny Ricardo found dead from repeated stab wounds on the docks, late last night. No clues as to motives or persons involved. Good ole Vinny. Jackie took her drink and her sheet back to bed, where she tossed the lighter into a drawer in her nightstand. It disappeared into a stack of lighters all engraved with women’s names.

Jackie woke up Friday morning and slipped on her favorite black funeral dress. She pulled on her black stiletto heels and dug out the black lace shawl her cousin Donna Maria gave her just before she died. She eyed her look in the full-length mirror and cocked a smile the way Donna Maria used to before she snared her next specimen.

She carefully applied her blood red lipstick and touched up her long enameled nails. Once ready, she entered the building’s parking garage and slithered into her black Jaguar with “Jackie” vanity plates.

The funeral had already begun when she arrived. Knowing no one, Jackie hung to the back. While the boring minister droned on, she enjoyed memories of the real side of Johnny, his kinky obsession with women’s lace undergarments and his need to cry out “momma mia” when he came. She thought about Queenie, whip in hand, riding him like a seal as they lolled on his water bed.

The time came for the attendees to approach the grave and say their final good-byes. Jackie snuck behind a six foot two mirror image of Johnny, her body trembling with desire.

“I’m Jackie.” She offered her hand to Mr. Six Foot Two, eyes of blue.

“Michael.”

“It’s nice to meet you…Michael.” Jackie applied her patented prescription combo of sweetness and sex appeal.

Michael looked confused. “I swear I know you from somewhere.”

“Hum,” Jackie shrugged causing her shawl to dance off her shoulder while batting her eyes in the opposite direction. “Funerals are creepy,” she continued, this time allowing the shawl to fall fully away, exposing her creamy white skin, and from Michael’s higher view, a direct shot into her $6,000 size D’s. “I didn’t know Johnny very well,” Jackie turned on the fake tears. “But it’s comforting to be here, to see him lain to rest, you know?” She let her handkerchief fall to the ground.

“Oh!” Jackie bent over before Michael could to pick it up - exposing her breasts to the nipple level as she delicately retrieved the handkerchief with her first finger and thumb. “Wanna go for a cup of coffee? I could sure use some comfort now.” She coyly asked with a wink in her eye.

Michael nodded his head, just like they all did.

They walked to her Jaguar and slid in without saying a word. She placed one extended nail on the sunroof button and it coiled back into the car. She hiked up her skirt so most of her thighs were exposed. Michael adjusted himself. Jackie flashed him a bright red smile, and he twitched. Back they went to the coffee shop, to her apartment, and soon enough… to that drawer of lighters.

(Header Photo Credit: Rebecca Wachtel)

Samantha Haven loves to study the human mind, heart and the body’s sexual organs. Thinking of the way a piece of chocolate melts on a tongue and oozes around teeth gets her typing fingers going. Samantha prefers bondage that involves silk scarves to handcuffs, and always baths in candlelight. She is on a literary quest to find the betwixt and between where fiction ends and erotica begins. Samantha is the Short Stories Editor at Pink Nighties.