THE COMING AND THE GOING.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A WOMAN MEETS A MAN AS SHE SITS ON A BENCH BY THE BEACH.

Submitted: November 05, 2009

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Submitted: November 05, 2009

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You remember the day you met that man called Jack as he came along and put his foot on the bench where you were sitting by the beach to tie his laces and he gave you the look and smiled and pushed back the hat he had on and began to speak as some men do giving it his all trying to be the cool guy attempting to make you think him the best thing that ever happened to show up in your life showing off his black shiny shoes his flannel pants his eyes moving over you taking in each aspect of you sizing you up wondering what made you tick what turned you on allowing his smile to widen permitting his hand to move closer along the back of the bench as all the time his voice opened up new areas of ideas and tales and you watched him and listened half attentively taking in his eyes behind the glasses his voice rich and baritone the words that slipped off his tongue like honey from a spoon and you noticed his hand moving closer toward you the fingers doing a kind of walk along the back of the bench and wished for a moment that he’d move on go elsewhere with his pants and shiny shoes and his smile and tales and yet you wanted him to stay and maybe sit beside you and talk more and contradictory as it seemed you both wanted him there and not there and that aspect made him more interesting because he confused you and your emotions and made each moment he was there the best moment for some time at least since Clive had gone off with that young bitch from Eastside with her short skirts and wiggly backside which you wanted to slap and her slangy voice and red lips and finger nails and there he was that man giving it his all trying to make out with you attempting to see how far he could get with you and all the time you studied him like a hawk taking his measure sizing him up comparing him with Clive wondering how he’d be in bed what kind of lover he’d make wishing for that moment that the talking would stop and that all the formalities be put aside and that he’d take you off somewhere preferably a room he had in some neat hotel with room service and the bed already and the maid long gone and the room warm and the view from the window that showed the beach and the sea and the tide and the horizon with ships and gulls and he and you undressed and him holding you and kissing you and as he laid you on the bed you caught a glimpse of the sun through the window and saw the sunlight lay a pillar of warmth across the floor and the bed where you lay naked but then he stood up and looked back and waved to his wife who came up to the bench and smiled and spoke all gentle and sweetly and put her arm through his and he smiled and took off his hat all gentleman like and with a wink walked off with the sweet voiced bitch who’d taken your dream lover man with his shiny shoes and baritone voice and a promising lovemaking afternoon and left you watching them until they disappeared from view like Clive and his bitch with the wiggly backside had done some years before as the sun kissed your cheek and the sea rushed the shore.


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