Lure
I flicked a career away as easily
as I tossed down shots of vodka. The brown shoes and
heavy overcoat, the thick wool suit in regulation
blue, opaque hosiery that marked red rails around my
waist, that made a serpentine path from my navel
down: the uniform is all I remember, how the wool
smelled alive in the rain, the flecks of mud that the
shoes, too high for the job, splattered against my
ankles as I walked.
If Robert hadn’t kissed me, I probably would have
stayed. We were in the claustrophobic break room,
sitting a little too close, but I liked it that way.
He smelled like brandy and coffee, with a touch of
rot underneath, the sweetness of the grave, reached
out with his gloved hand to cover mine. I
wanted
him to kiss me, willed
it to happen, just to breathe in the warmth, get a
little taste of humanity. An exchange of knowledge.
Or maybe it was the lure of touch, a desire for
contact beyond a fatherly pat on the hand.
Sweat was forming on his forehead. I reached out with
my handkerchief to blot it away, traced the scar
above his right eyebrow. “Hunting accident,” he said
mysteriously. I saw the flash of a Bowie knife, the
wince of fists, felt tinny redness fill my mouth.
Pouting in concern, I leaned in close, he leaned in
closer, and we kissed. His delicate fingers, soft in
their leather coats, relentlessly explored my nape.
Obedient, I followed his lead. We went from peck to
panting and pawing until the door opened.
Filler for NaNoWriMo, from a
revised Round Robin prompt last spring. Impossibly
short in the face of all the other words I've been
tallying lately.
Image: Kiss V, 1964, Roy Lichtenstein.