Thursday's 3 Word Wednesday
The word prompts over at 3WW are funny, remember and theatre. Bone's dad got to come home from the hospital on Sunday, and for that, I am glad. Not probably my best, but it's a start:
D.I.Y. Ethics
They sat in the darkened theatre, near stage right, she sitting Indian-style and slowly rocked as she talked; he lay on his left hip, chin propped up with his left hand that was beginning to turn tingly and numb.
Her simple black dress was set off with a single princess-cut sapphire in a gold setting that rode in the swell of her breasts; sitting Indian-style gave him a great deal of leg to watch, but his eyes went no further than the elastic lace of her black thigh-high stockings. The black pumps, well, she’d simply kicked them off.
He was in his tropical wool Dunhill tuxedo, black shirt, gray silk tie that shined silver; the full Windsor knot loose at his throat. His patent-leather Johnson & Murphy shoes were piled on top of hers.
The evening was a benefit performance. The kind of production where people plunk down cash for something shocking and avant-garde. Tonight, it was an instrumental evening of music by The Clash, performed by with a full orchestra backing the electric guitars, bass and drum kit.
“Do you remember the night we met?” she asks, twirling a spare lock of hair that’s fallen from the elaborate French twist that held her blond hair, the color of fresh straw, in check.
“Funny, I was just going to ask you the same question,” he says, raking his dark curls that were beginning to turn silver at the temples. “I do remember holding your hair out of your face while you barfed against that dumpster.”
“Such a gentleman,” she says, laughing. “I kept telling you I was quite fine.”
“I missed Televison’s entire first set because of you.”
“And I think I made that up to you in the cab ride home.”
Both had come with dates who tried not to look overly bored. They’d passed one another in the lobby at intermission, and with a touch, fled to the balcony to wait everyone out.
D.I.Y. Ethics
They sat in the darkened theatre, near stage right, she sitting Indian-style and slowly rocked as she talked; he lay on his left hip, chin propped up with his left hand that was beginning to turn tingly and numb.
Her simple black dress was set off with a single princess-cut sapphire in a gold setting that rode in the swell of her breasts; sitting Indian-style gave him a great deal of leg to watch, but his eyes went no further than the elastic lace of her black thigh-high stockings. The black pumps, well, she’d simply kicked them off.
He was in his tropical wool Dunhill tuxedo, black shirt, gray silk tie that shined silver; the full Windsor knot loose at his throat. His patent-leather Johnson & Murphy shoes were piled on top of hers.
The evening was a benefit performance. The kind of production where people plunk down cash for something shocking and avant-garde. Tonight, it was an instrumental evening of music by The Clash, performed by with a full orchestra backing the electric guitars, bass and drum kit.
“Do you remember the night we met?” she asks, twirling a spare lock of hair that’s fallen from the elaborate French twist that held her blond hair, the color of fresh straw, in check.
“Funny, I was just going to ask you the same question,” he says, raking his dark curls that were beginning to turn silver at the temples. “I do remember holding your hair out of your face while you barfed against that dumpster.”
“Such a gentleman,” she says, laughing. “I kept telling you I was quite fine.”
“I missed Televison’s entire first set because of you.”
“And I think I made that up to you in the cab ride home.”
Both had come with dates who tried not to look overly bored. They’d passed one another in the lobby at intermission, and with a touch, fled to the balcony to wait everyone out.
Comments
Very nice use of the words