DP Challenge| Something Good

It was weird sense of something in the air. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but it was certainly there. I knew to just go with it; it usually leads me to something good. And that something good walked out the door behind me not even two minutes later. Tall, lanky just enough body to look like he takes care of himself, but not so much that he looks like he lives in a gym. The cut of his pastel dress shirt and dark slacks told me he spent a decent penny for them. Yes, he waited before he followed me out, but I could see him relax on spotting me. That he followed me out of the club proved he liked what he saw.

Horny, just like me, just the way I like them. My inner devil thinks to myself.
You know you’re wrong. My inner angel wags the internal Mom finger at me.
What? I’m grown. The derisive snort is audible as the devil wins this round.

Something Good and I lock eyes as I smile shyly at him. That was all the opening he needed as he walks over.

It’s a shame sometimes, how easy it is.

The perfect mix of honey and harlot I lean against the dark tinted windows of a car at the curb, casually tapping my fingers against the glass as we converse. His voice is deep, rich. He’s charming, witty, a little self-effacing and an actual nice guy. In spite of it all I find myself liking him.

He really could be The Something Good you know

The damned inner angel, sensing a possible opening, tries to reassert itself, but I’m not having. The perfect mix of harlot and Honey, I outright tell Something Good that I should walk away, that I do not want this to be a one-time thing, heading for the inevitable. And being the type of man I am slowly perceiving him to be, he starts to back away. Still, I can’t seem to stop touching him, the back of his hand, his sleeve, his collar. I make a point of glancing between his eyes and gorgeous lips.

Look at me looking at your lips. Take the hint. Take it!

He pulls a card from his wallet, making me promise to call him. He puts the card in my hand and then quickly pins me to the car kissing me, kisses me like he means it. I cannot help but put my arms around him in response.


I watch him walk away, enjoying the callipygian view of his strong swagger, watching his shoulders tremble from laughing at my I pantomime of smoking a cigarette after the kiss.

What he don’t know

My eyes drop to the ground for the briefest moment before looking up again. Sure enough, he looks behind him one last time and grins, pantomiming call me before turning the corner. My hand gently strokes my cheek, the feel of his five o’clock shadow leaving a slight, but pleasant burn.

And he was such a good kisser too. Shame.

As soon as he is out of view, I tap the window once. The car engine comes alive and I quickly get in the passenger side, scooping up his pilfered wallet along the way.


My fourth lift of the night and by the quick scan of the multiple benjamins inside the wallet, also my best one.

Something Good indeed.


This week’s  Weekly Writing Challenge at The Daily Posts asks us to use a classic storytelling device, the unreliable narrator, in a story story or flash fiction.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Writing Backward – Old Man

“Good bye old man.”

Hand still on the headstone; Delilah lifts her face to the light rain that has fallen intermittently all day. She has as umbrella, but does not want to use it. Well aware she will likely pay for this by catching one heck of a cold as she is slowly soaked, she does not care right now. It feels oddly soothing. The cool rain mixing in with the hot tears that continue to run down her face try as she might to stop its flow.  They all knew the old man was in his final days, still knowing Death is coming does very little to lessen the blow of the final strike of his scythe once he arrives.

It is fitting, she thinks. It is fitting that it has rained most of this day; it matches her mood as she opens the car door, when they pull up to the cemetery.  Taking her hand as she exits the vehicle, her husband Henri gives her a reassuring hug. A gentle reminder of his presence though he is otherwise silent, leaving her to her thoughts.  She knows he understands, she needs this visit to the old man’s grave.

The rain damped lawn yields gently as they walk back over the grass to the waiting car. A bittersweet smile crosses her face as she remembers how the old man walked her down the aisle on her wedding day.  Showing signs of his advancing age, he was just starting to become unpredictable in his behavior. She had let family convince her that it was perhaps better if she walked down the grassy aisle on her own. But in the end how could she deny him this? She was happy she stuck to her guns, having faith in him knowing how important this was to her. That he would do his very best.  And he was what he had always been, regal, charming and such the perfect gentleman.

The same gentleman he was when Henri, in front of the entire family, showed him the engagement ring and asked his permission to marry Delilah.  The old man gave a good-natured protective growl, but then his playful bark of approval, soon followed. Even her own father laughed hard at that, as Henri then inquired the same of him, fully knowing Henri had asked permission in the correct order.  Eventually, he got around to actually asking Delilah herself to the delight of everyone.

The old man was sitting by her side as always the day she met Henri at the outdoor café.  New to the city, he was lost. He placed a map in front of Delilah asking directions, without really looking at her nor the old man. She smiled removing her shades as she pointed to the then not so old man and teased that Henri was better off showing the map to him. Only then did Henri notice the harness, realized Delilah was blind and began to apologize profusely at his “oversight”. Delilah laughed at his use of oversight and introduced Henri to Oberon, her fourteen year old, canine service companion.  Delilah smiled as she heard Henri squat down and give the dog a friendly scratch behind the ear.

“Well hello there, old man.”

Weekly Writing Challenge: Writing Backward

Daily Prompt | What A Twist!

Bar Fly

It’s a late afternoon in spring, the an almost perfect New York City day, at least weather wise. Sunny, with a couple of cotton candy clouds to show just how deep the cerulean of the sky. Mid 60 degrees as a daytime high, a hint of chill in the air to have need a blazer or light jacket/sweater once the sun set. It was just after 6pm and technically evening, but the sun still owned the sky too much to concede to the imminent call of night yet. As people walk in they are momentarily blinded by the sudden dimness and blink slowly scanning the place as their eyes adjust.

A wall of two-seater dimly lit booths line one side of the wall giving off sense of intimacy that doesn’t truly exist. Not that it stopped one couple whose drinks and libido are getting the best of them. The better lighting is over the various sized wooden tables which crowd the center of the floor and a long oak monstrosity engulfs the far side of the bar. The bar itself with its intricate carved rail was worn dark and smooth at the top over the decades. A mirrored wall reflecting the myriad colored libations of various proofs available for consumption. Though a nice modern touch screen computer reigned next to it doing all the work, a huge old-fashioned brass cash register took center stage along the mirrored wall. Even in the relative dimness in general its tall columns, high arches for the numbers and keys were regularly polished until they gleamed. The décor which changed styles along with the owners over the years was now some half faded New England shore house meets Mexican hacienda hybrid with its aqua and teal hued canoes suspended from the ceiling, and sea colored striped serapes served as pseudo tapestry with the occasional seascape painting dotting the walls. Each booth and table had various centerpieces of miniature cacti with sand and seashells. It looked like Poncho Villa cum Martha Stewart. Did she sell sea shells on the Cancun sea-shore?

Three men are huddled in a group, slowly shrugging out of their uniform of expensive looking suits and polished shoes. One in a charcoal gray pin-stripe, has his royal purple tie loosened at the neck, the shirt sleeves of his stark-white on white striped shirt rolled-up to the elbows. A hint of dragon scales peek out from the half-sleeve tattoo. From the snatches of financial jargon I’m getting from their conversation I’d guess their all day-traders, making me wonder if he ever rolls his sleeves up in the office. He straddles his chair; the material of his slacks, move along the musculature of his solid legs. Argyle socks in purple and grays to match the rest are bunching around his ankles. The sloppiness of the socks are an almost welcome surprise after the clearly practiced orderliness of the rest of his attire. The little bit of calf showing indicates a light hirsuteness. It is confirmed by the dark tufts just peeking out above the neck of the undershirt worn under his shirt and on his lower arms casually drape over the back of the chair. In one hand he holds his beer bottle between his index and middle fingers, using his thumb for balance only when swinging it up to swig in some movie fed imitation of cool. The runs the other hand through already perfectly tousled hair. You just know he wants to shake it out, but restrains himself. His hair is dark, I bet he has a five o’clock shadow by noon. It was past midnight according to the shadows along his jaw now. The matching dark brows contrasted greatly with his light eyes. The irises were so light they reminded me of the zeroes used for eyes in the Little Orphan Annie cartoon strip. He was not conventionally handsome, but he had a certain something, he knew it and was clearly using it as he checked the females at a table in his line of vision.

The females are mostly artsy types wearing the stock in trade professional solid dark-colored slacks or skirts with vivid colored shoes or blouse, or some wildly patterned accessory. One goes even more bold with her vibrant necklace and boxy bangles, more than likely added on after five o’clock. Just adding that little extra pop of wow to prove they still have some bohemian left in them and have not totally sold their artistic souls to the corporate man. As Daytrader sidled up to one, she chats him up, but it’s pretty easy to see she’s only doing so to kill time, and is already eying the door for a potentially better option. After a few moments she’s clearly bored and returns to talking to her friends, giving Daytrader no choice but to return to his.

The place is animated, borderline loud, and all but reeks of the underlying facade of having a grand life. For most, this bar is just a diversion between work, loneliness and the inevitable weekly visit to the psychiatrist.

In other words, your average crowd, in your average bar, at your average after work happy hour.

The Daily Post – Weekly Writing Challenge: Person, Place, Thing