Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Flash Fiction #2: Stormy Weather

"It's raining," she says, glancing out the window as she pulls her skirt on. "Pissing down, actually. I'm not going out in that."
He sits up in bed, still naked under the bed sheet, slightly uncomfortable that she's still here. Less than five minutes ago he was deep inside her and she was gasping in pleasure and he wouldn't have her leave for the entire world. But that was five minutes ago. Now is now, she's had her money, and he wants her gone.
Oblivious, she perches on the edge of the bed and smiles at him. He smiles back nervously, and offers to call her a taxi.
"No, no… My car is parked a few streets away. I'll just wait for this rain to ease off."
Bugger, he thinks.
"So," she says, eying a small ladder in her tights, "you got any holidays booked yet this year?"
"We're thinking of Benidorm," he replies, of course meaning by 'we', his wife and him. "But if money's tight, we'll be lucky if we get to Blackpool."
She laughs softly in agreement and comments on the extortionate prices of Britain's seaside resorts.
"It's actually cheaper to go abroad for a weekend," she says, eyes wide, as if to say can you believe it? "I checked on the internet. Bloody ridiculous if you ask me."
"So what about you then," he asks, his unease evaporating. "Going anywhere nice?"
"Well," she inspects her flawless nail polish. "I was hoping for a few days in Dublin with the girls this summer, but there's no guarantee of good weather… I might fuck them all off and go to Ibiza for a week, get some myself some sun. The clubs out there are amazing."
He smiles, wistfully remembering the days when he could go to clubs and not get mistaken for somebody's dad. He silently wonders whether he is old enough to be her father. How old is she, exactly? Before he knows what he's doing, he's asked her.
"You realise you're never meant to ask a lady that." She grins broadly, as if acknowledging the irony of calling herself a lady. Then she voices it. "Even a lady of the night." She turns her head and looks out the window again, checking the rain, and he thinks she's forgotten the question. Then, after a few seconds of silence; "I'll be thirty this year."
Definitely not old enough to be her father. He breathes an inward sigh of relief.
"God, thirty…" She whispers, like she's talking to herself. "Doesn't sound right. I don't feel thirty. I barely feel twenty, most days." Her face brightens somewhat. "Still, I suppose it's good to be young at heart. Like you."
"Yes, you. Earlier, the way you… you know. You might look a little, well, mature, but you're still a red-blooded male under it all. I like that you've kept that. You have no idea how many men lose it the instant they hit forty. Either that, or it goes the opposite way and they're driving mid-life-crisis-mobiles, doing it with teenagers." She sort of stops herself, realising she might be a bit too close to home. He doesn't mind. At least she isn't a teenager… And he is happy with the sensible car that he owns. He leans forward and peers out the window.
"You know… I think that rain is going to be going on for a fair while."
"Oh, okay…" She gets up as if to leave. "I might as well be going, then –"
He pulls her by the waist down onto the bed, on top of him. He can feel himself stiffening under the bed sheet, and the look on her face is very encouraging. He rolls her over and slides a hand under her blouse, grinning as her squeals of delight drown out the noise of the storm outside.

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