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A quote: “Most people would like to be delivered from temptation but would like it to keep in touch.” ~~ Robert Orben
I’ll start with a story …
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She had to be blonde. Even her voice over the phone, softly pleading, softly assuring, was straight up, not from a bottle, blonde.
And they spell trouble. Every. Single. Time.
Brunettes? Give me one of those level-headed gals with no fear of slapping my face to bring me in line. Keeps me grounded.
Yet here I am, meeting with trouble. Her face turns towards me as I cross the room. Blue eyes just a tad too eager, lush lips tipped a tad too predatory.
I take the envelope of cash from my jacket and toss it in her lap.
“No.”
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license.
southbound says: The introduction. No middlle, no action, just the lead-in to action, no end. No story here.
Navig8r says: There was something vaguely wrong with the picture. She was just too beautiful to play the piano that well. The high heels also seemed wrong for piano playing. An instant later I awoke to the voice of the interrogator. “You won’t be able to resist the drugs. You will tell us everything we want to know.” I had a hazy memory of the instructors at the farm telling us that was probably true, that the drugs could really warp your senses . . . maybe the piano wasn’t real . . . . but she was just too beautiful to be playing the piano that well . . . .
Lewis says: He called three years into my marriage. Go away, I’m happy, I have a new baby and a good life.
He called 25 years into my marriage. Let’s do lunch?
He has kids in high school, mine are grown and gone. It might work, but those kids weigh on my mind.
He called 57 years into my marriage. He still has his wife, I still have my husband.
It might have been fun, but could I pay the tariff on all that guilt?
Cameron says: I remember almost every little detail. The rich color of piano’s wood, the silk of her dress, a hint of smoke in the air. She’s saying something to me, her voice is soft and it wraps around my heart.
“What did she say?”
“Something…something about….gah. I don’t remember.”
“Why did you take the picture at that moment?”
“I’m sorry but I really don’t know the answer.”
The man smiled and set the picture back on the table. “It’s all right. I knew this picture would be important to help bring your memories back when you were unfrozen. We’ll keep working.”
Chandler Armitage had always resented the tight leash his folks kept him under. He knew that Alan Shepard had been a skirt-chaser, although Tom Wolfe had exaggerated a lot for effect in The Right Stuff, but it was annoying to have everyone assume that his clones would be just like him.
Now that Chandler was finally out from under their thumb, he intended to finally see the sights. There was a lot more to Annapolis than the Naval Academy and the state government. Take for instance the cabaret singer he kept hearing about from the upperclassmen. The biggest problem now was getting off the Academy ground without getting caught.
Dupin says: He sat here playing, while I watched with the others. The seat is still warm.
Did he notice me? The nocturne he played, caressing me from that short distance. The scherzo after. Such a climax.
I play, but could never caress, never climax. Not with the keyboard, the piano. Not from a distance, but up close, there I could compete, could complement.
When the warmth of the stool cools, I will go backstage, mingle, talk to him, see if he is in person as he is with the piano. If so, I will invite him to caress. To climax. Together.
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