This week’s Red Dress Club prompt was to “write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character’s. They can be real or symbolic.”
Constructive criticism always welcomed and appreciated. Enjoy!
“Oooh, my—oohh.” Layna moaned, almost completely exhausted.
“Mmm—hmm, hmm.” Terrence chuckled in agreement. Equally spent, he lay against the rough pillow sham, back itching, but his body unwilling to move.
Four hours earlier, the two met at Silverstein’s, a local bar primarily frequented by the under twenty-five scene. Neither had intended on hooking up with anyone. Both were dragged out that evening, victims of well-intentioned friends, convinced that the cure for their respective mid-thirty, single ills was a night of heavy drinking, dancing, and ‘getting the hell out of the house for a change.’
Their meeting was quite accidental and rather comedic. As she was exiting the ladies room, he was trying to enter. “Got the wrong door, there, stud. I think the little boys’ room is around the corner!” she had told him. “Why, I think you might be right…” he managed. “Although I think I like the view in this room a little better.” His gaze ran like syrup over her ample curves, barely encased in a shimmering, silky dress. One that she had fought wearing that evening, as it was too revealing for her taste. One that she reluctantly wore after losing the self-esteem driven battle with her girlfriend.
“Can I buy you a drink?” In his best attempt to mask his inebriation with debonairness; he came off more ‘haughty asshole’ than ‘Don Juan.’
“Hmm… nice try, sexy. I’m all taken care of.” She shot him a defiant grin as she walked past back toward her table. ‘Did I just call him sexy?’ She chastised herself silently. Her cheeks burned in unsuppressed embarrassment.
A short time later, Terrence made his way to her table, two sparkling apple martinis in hand. After apologizing for his drunken behavior, he explained that it had been a long time since he’d attempted to talk to a woman, much less flirt. His awkwardness, she noted, was adorable. She relaxed and they spoke as casually as if they had just reconnected rather than met.
Three martinis into their conversation, they were the only two in the overcrowded saloon. Her fingers lightly danced over his wrist. He was afloat in her pale green eyes, gently swaying back and forth in their calming current.
Both had told their friends they would catch up with them following day. Stern looks told both sets of them, ‘You wanted me out of the stable, now let me run for a little while.’
The twenty minute walk back to her apartment took forty-five. Hands found fleeting but firm holds on long untouched places; their tongues had forcefully danced with each other. Dust from brick walls would have to be dry-cleaned from her dress. His smart, grey blazer would need equal attention.
After nearly breaking her key off in the door, they stumbled through the apartment, leaving a trail of clothing all the way to her room. The claims that neither of them had done this before were lost to the farthest corners of the room, muffled by ragged breathing and prayers unintended for church.
After passionately devouring each other with a nearly forgotten lust, they both lay still; afraid to move for fear that the euphoric paralysis may prove permanent.
He glanced toward the end of the bed and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” She turned her head toward him.
“Your shoes are still on.” He said through a Cheshire grin.