Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The word prompts over at Three word Wednesday are callous, interfere and persistent.
Twist, A Love Story
She stands outside the arc of light thrown by a lone streetlamp, vaguely aware of the muffled music that’s trying desperately to break from the brick facade of the dingy club.
She rests a spiked heel on the brick, flips open the hardbox pack of cigarettes, selects one. The Zippo lighter explodes into flame, illuminates for an instant her face as the end of the cigarette catches.
Dark eye makeup the color of bruised plums. White face powder. Lipstick like wet cherries.
Smoke curls around her face and shrouds the cold and callous looks she gives to anyone who passes.
She is a warning sign, like dangerous curves ahead, and still men are persistent at the bar. They walk up, cavalier, offer to buy her drinks, lean in to talk to her tits, not her.
“No thanks,” she’d say coolly, turning to pick up her vodka and cranberry.
“Dike,” they’d say, dejected like scolded puppies, tails between their legs.
Tonight, the hits were an assembly line of monotony.
The only escape was out the metal doors and onto the cracked sidewalk. There she could breath, relax.
And from the shadows, a giggle. Then a whisper, faint, in a voice she immediately recognized.
“What took you so long?”
“I didn’t want to interfere,” she called from the darkness. “Besides, I knew you could hold your own against all those horny little boys. Buy you a drink?”
“I’d love one, thanks.”
Twist, A Love Story
She stands outside the arc of light thrown by a lone streetlamp, vaguely aware of the muffled music that’s trying desperately to break from the brick facade of the dingy club.
She rests a spiked heel on the brick, flips open the hardbox pack of cigarettes, selects one. The Zippo lighter explodes into flame, illuminates for an instant her face as the end of the cigarette catches.
Dark eye makeup the color of bruised plums. White face powder. Lipstick like wet cherries.
Smoke curls around her face and shrouds the cold and callous looks she gives to anyone who passes.
She is a warning sign, like dangerous curves ahead, and still men are persistent at the bar. They walk up, cavalier, offer to buy her drinks, lean in to talk to her tits, not her.
“No thanks,” she’d say coolly, turning to pick up her vodka and cranberry.
“Dike,” they’d say, dejected like scolded puppies, tails between their legs.
Tonight, the hits were an assembly line of monotony.
The only escape was out the metal doors and onto the cracked sidewalk. There she could breath, relax.
And from the shadows, a giggle. Then a whisper, faint, in a voice she immediately recognized.
“What took you so long?”
“I didn’t want to interfere,” she called from the darkness. “Besides, I knew you could hold your own against all those horny little boys. Buy you a drink?”
“I’d love one, thanks.”
Comments
The NaisaiKu.. Challenge!
Great work :)