Thursday's 3 Word Wednesday
The prompt words over at 3WW are empty, highway and ignored. Great words, huh?
Rendezvous
Her lipstick, something red and trashy she’d picked up just for this evening, was smeared across her chin, her teeth. Her mascara had run – it was supposed to be smear-proof, live and learn – and in the headlights of oncoming cars, she looked like a wild, bloodied animal.
The dyed black hair, the little black dress, the red bra straps, the heels – the left broken so she hobbled rather than walked - drivers didn’t even give her the grace of a long horn honk. On this stretch of highway, at this time of night, they simply ignored her.
The tears came again, her breaths came in halting, hiccupy sips and she crumbled to the asphalt, opened holes at the knees of the expensive thigh-high stockings he preferred. Pebbles dug into her thighs and at that moment, she felt empty, a vessel used and discarded.
She’d seen the email on his laptop, asking that she meet him at the motel on Route 32. Take a taxi, he said. He’d be waiting. Room 126. Wear the little black dress, the matching red bra and lace panties, the makeup just so – heavy, but not slutty.
The sheer black stockings, don’t forget the stockings, he pleaded.
The kids fussed for her mother – she’d complete her transformation without a lot of questions after mom cleared out – and the taxi was late. She fretted. She kept having to adjust the frilly panties that he seemed to ask for less and less.
She tipped the driver, walked awkwardly across the gravel-strewn parking lot of the low-slung motel with its bright, inviting neon.
She tapped lightly on the metal fire door. Again. And again, louder.
He threw it open in an annoyed arc, froze, cursed.
And she saw the younger version of herself on the bed, thigh-highs, red panties still intact.
And recognized her from his office picnic. The one from accounting.
Rendezvous
Her lipstick, something red and trashy she’d picked up just for this evening, was smeared across her chin, her teeth. Her mascara had run – it was supposed to be smear-proof, live and learn – and in the headlights of oncoming cars, she looked like a wild, bloodied animal.
The dyed black hair, the little black dress, the red bra straps, the heels – the left broken so she hobbled rather than walked - drivers didn’t even give her the grace of a long horn honk. On this stretch of highway, at this time of night, they simply ignored her.
The tears came again, her breaths came in halting, hiccupy sips and she crumbled to the asphalt, opened holes at the knees of the expensive thigh-high stockings he preferred. Pebbles dug into her thighs and at that moment, she felt empty, a vessel used and discarded.
She’d seen the email on his laptop, asking that she meet him at the motel on Route 32. Take a taxi, he said. He’d be waiting. Room 126. Wear the little black dress, the matching red bra and lace panties, the makeup just so – heavy, but not slutty.
The sheer black stockings, don’t forget the stockings, he pleaded.
The kids fussed for her mother – she’d complete her transformation without a lot of questions after mom cleared out – and the taxi was late. She fretted. She kept having to adjust the frilly panties that he seemed to ask for less and less.
She tipped the driver, walked awkwardly across the gravel-strewn parking lot of the low-slung motel with its bright, inviting neon.
She tapped lightly on the metal fire door. Again. And again, louder.
He threw it open in an annoyed arc, froze, cursed.
And she saw the younger version of herself on the bed, thigh-highs, red panties still intact.
And recognized her from his office picnic. The one from accounting.
Comments
very vivid imagery. and i really like the chronology here.
Or who you replaced. Or whatever.
Another little gem, Thom. Thanks for posting this.
And E - everyone's a critic. Thanks for being a discerning judge, a connoisseur of ideas.