I slipped away quietly, as much as I could anyway. She stood leaning against the door frame, one slender leg crossed the other, red plump lips juicy like two slices of grapefruit– I must turn away.
But her long eyelashes, and those eyes! Endlessly brown like a pot of honey so sickly sweet. She looked like a 50s pinup doll, the tiny waist, the wide set of hips, and the slightly arrogant chin raised just above your eye level, and the eyelids half shut. A little Märta Torén like. Of course, Märta was probably far classier.
She was in a class all by herself.
“Hey there stranger,” smoke puff chatted it’s way up my face. I coughed. Second hand smoke was my least favorite thing about being around her.
“I think you got the wrong person,” I replied.
“You know what I think?” She stepped closer, one hand on my shoulder, ” I think you and I both know you are a lying son of a bitch.”
Ouch. To think after a night together she would say something a little nicer.
She flicked her cigarette towards a woman by the bar. The little lighted firework had a brief moment of brilliance and then landed on the cold hard floor.
“Who’s the suit?”
I looked over. The place where I sat had been taken over by a man in a cheap suit trying to buy the woman a drink.
“Donno, don’t care.”
“Heh,” she snickered, “that’s what they all say until they leave your bed the next morning cold and unfeeling, calling the whole thing a drunken debauchery.”
She tossed her cigarette on the ground and watched it die.
“Probably should get back to her,” she said.
“See you around?” she rose her eyebrow and leaned forward.
With my eyes trained on the cheap suit, I rested my finger on her puckered lips:
The woman at the bar may never know that she is only half as pretty as Märta Torén, but she will always be good enough for me.