After ordering a Cosmo, Sarah chose a corner booth in a small bar on the fringes of the French Quarter. It was dark, not too crowded. Perfect. Perched on a torn seat, she finished her cocktail in several swift gulps, but still it took four tries to get her cigarette glowing. 20 years. As she dragged deeply she scanned the room for Sam, but he wasn’t there yet. 20 years since they’d… She yanked a mini lint roller out of her purse and ran it over her black pencil skirt, grateful she’d splurged on her first pair of Louboutin pumps. Then she stubbed out her cigarette and swiped on a fresh layer of lipstick. That’s better, she thought.
Sarah caught the waitress’ eye and ordered another pink drink. Just then, Sam strode into the bar making her choke on her own saliva. His familiar athletic frame clad in a t-shirt and jeans made her tingle all over. Although it had been 20 years since they’d last seen one another, his eyes found and locked on hers in that same old way and Sarah hopped up to tackle him in a hug. The heady scent of him made her tremble. As his goatee grazed her cheek in a sideways sort of kiss, Sarah’s body came alive and she caught herself pressing against him for a moment longer than was necessary.
Where the hell is my drink? Sarah thought as she pulled away. I have to shake this shit off.
“Tell me everything,” Sam said, sliding into the booth. “Now that you’re divorced too, we have lots to talk about,” he said with a wink. Underneath the table, his knee bumped hers. Twice. A trickle of sweat began its journey down into her bra.
Sarah spilled the sordid details of her husband’s indiscretions as her drink arrived along with two beers for Sam. She didn’t remember hearing him order them. Her words tumbled all over each other, mindless chatter, hiding the fact that inside she was burning, like bare feet hitting sun-baked sidewalk in August. Somewhere between telling him about the hotel charges on the credit card bills and all the “business” calls late at night she started unraveling, loosening. Her ex’s lies and years of deceit began to fan the flames she felt inside. She leaned in closer, lowered her voice, and the liquid courage allowed her to hold Sam’s gaze as she continued talking.
His eyes were impossible, burning into every bit of her. Underneath her blouse and skirt, she felt herself bursting, blooming. Hues of red, orange and yellow rose up inside her. He was asking her a question, something about her job, only the words weren’t registering. In one sweeping motion she grabbed Sam’s wrist, arched her body across the table and pressed her hot mouth to his, stopping him mid-sentence. His fingertips traced the edges of her face, then cupped it in his hands. She wanted him. Desperately. Every bone in her body ached to have him.
Melting into him, memories washed over her in warm waves: long handwritten letters she ripped into, shared secrets, hushed phone conversations in her dorm room. And now, on fire here in the booth, wondering what could be, after 20 years.
I linked up today with The Red Dress Club prompt (I’m attempting fiction again, so BE GENTLE!):
Let’s get all steamy up in here and write about sex.
But there’s a twist.
You can’t write about the act. I don’t want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).
Limit is 600 words, fiction or non-fiction.