We hadn’t seen each other since college. Our friendship ended abruptly because we were in love with the same woman. He wanted to fight over her. I politely declined and wished him well.
I wasn’t surprised when he told me of their breakup. Everybody knew that this particular woman had been adamant about remaining a virgin until marriage.
“You lucked out, K,” he said with a mouthful of vodka. “She never caved.”
The way he described their sexless courtship – hours of cuddling and making out – was rather charming.
His eyes lit up. “I saw her last week. She called and told me that she’s married now. Then she invited me over. Before we broke up, she promised to have sex with me once she was married – even if she wasn’t married to me. I guess she was serious.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.”
“And her husband?”
“She told me that you’re her husband and that you’ll probably kill me. She said you’ll have a sharp knife with you.”
I put the knife on the table and shrugged. “I’m not going to kill you with this.” I nodded toward his empty martini glass and watched his throat tighten. “Thanks for the drink.”
Leave a comment | tags: affect, alcohol, bar, body, death, flash fiction, love, marriage, martini, murder, relationships, romance, sex, Short Fiction, short story, virgin, virginity, vodka | posted in Her, Him, Me, Short Fiction, Uncategorized
K wondered why she kept herself in the dark,why she never bothered to turn on a lamp or overhead light or why she never lit one of the countless candles with which she had peppered her upper-middle class residence. Indeed, when he joined her for an evening cocktail or whatever, they were never alone, for the darkness kept them company until the sun (he often stayed the night because there were totally serious) chased it away.
He asked her once: “Why don’t we light a candle?” She rebuffed him: “Those candles are all made from the bodies of former lovers. For obvious reasons I don’t want to burn them.” It kinda made sense. To sit in the darkness, indeed to embrace it, seemed to suggest to K’s petulant intellect that her world was–figuratively–lighted by the affections of men.
But K grew uncomfortable with the idea of old flames hanging around during their intimate moments. He talked himself out of burning her house down. Instead, after dinner one evening he doused himself in her finest vodka and lit himself on fire. She was probably impressed with his devotion; but she never found jealousy to be an attractive quality.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, burn, candle, fiction, fire, flame, love, relationships, romance, tundish, vodka | posted in Her, Him, Short Fiction
I sent a glass of vodka over to the woman like they do in the movies, primarily because she didn’t have a drink in front of her but also because men do those things hoping for sex. She was sitting at the bar in an expensive dress probably purchased by a guy no longer around. The bartender set the glass down in front of her and gingerly gestured my way while saying something appropriate. The woman said nothing and neither did she raise her gaze from where it was–down. The bartender shrugged her shoulders and went about her business.
The woman took the glass in one well-maintained hand and with eyes still downcast poured it [the glass of vodka] out all over the bar top. She then set it [the glass empty of vodka] back down in front of her. What she did next was odd: she rose from her bar stool, unzipped her dress, and let it fall from her shoulders. She was wearing Agent Provocateur; I could tell because I once bought the same matching underwear set for a girl no longer around.
She turned and walked away from the dress at her feet and also, from me.
Leave a comment | tags: affect, alcohol, bar, bartender, emotions, lingerie, prosthetic, vodka, woman | posted in Me, Short Fiction, Woman
