Every once in a while I doodle on a writing prompt and it becomes a piece of flash fiction, and that is what happened this morning. Without further ado, I give you the result of the timed free-writing I did today:
If Donatella Versace ever needed a double, this one would have worked. She had the fake hourglass figure, the stringy, flat, blonde hair, the bulbous lips, and sunken eyes penciled over high cheek bones. He checked his wallet. After he paid for the drinks, he might have just enough to persuade her.
He gulped down his drink, wiped his beard, and shuffled out to the men’s room, pushing through the crass Karaoke songs in Singlish, the cigarette smoke, the stink of cheap whisky, beer, and wine. She walked past him, almost colliding.
For a moment, he thought she would come undone, her breasts bounce on the floor, each going its separate way, her ass tumble out and rock slowly in its place, her lips splatter on the floor in a pink splotch. But her lipstick held back her lips, her bustier did an admirable job of keeping together her middle, and stockings and stays did the rest. She stayed within her skin and righted herself on her teetering heels.
Back on his seat, he waved for the check, and she came, holding the small black folder with her claw-like nails. The sight of them prompted him to look at his own gnarled hands, yellow, blue, and green paint cracked under his nails.
When he asked her, she smiled, and said in her nasal, Texan drawl, aren’t you too old to be doing such things?
I’ll never be too old to do what I do, he said.
Afterwards, when he had taken off her breasts, her lips, her ass, her heels, she talked to him of her husband back home who had married again, of her kids who must have grown up by now, of how terrified she was of growing old.
The studio loft smelled of her, her perfume, and turpentine. His hands worked as she talked, and there they were, the swollen body parts she had stuck on herself to become more of a woman, hanging on sticks on his canvas, sailing on strings. Behind her, from the window, the lights of the Singapore skyline went out one by one, and the faint gray outline of tall buildings appeared against the dark of dawn.
Do me a favor, he said, come back often.
I will, she said. I love that you do what you do.
And so they came together, the man and his muse.
For those who’ve already read my other pieces, please help me spread the word about A-Z Stories of Life and Death, my book of short short stories. If this is your first encounter with my work, and if you like it, please check out my book as well!