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.