Yo' Momma

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another view of a belly dancer

Submitted: November 23, 2009

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Submitted: November 23, 2009

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Her top roared with cleavage, and the boys who goggled at her felt their toes curl in synch with her famous body roll.  The tassels on her hips formed an indigo blur between her bare back and the band of her skirt as she shook with the earthy rhythm.

Ranji twisted, turned, bent -- anything to appease her audience -- until the song’s final beat.  With one of her two-inch eyelashes, she winked at one of the boys, then turned from him as drool seeped from the corner of his lips.  She lingered in that position for a moment, hip outstretched, the longest she’d stood still in an hour, and the details of her body came into focus at last.  The head of a serpent poked its head from the top of her skirt, and its body, visible through a slit in her skirt, spiraled down one of her long legs.  Temptation took physical form.

The boys whistled, hooted, hollered, but no one of them could keep her attention for more than three seconds.  Many offered to buy her a drink, but just the same, she and the liquor both were gone three seconds after it was poured.

“My coat, Manny!” Ranji shouted at the round bartender, who threw her a black trench coat from behind the bar.

Ranji wrapped herself in the coat and wove her way through the drunken crowd and out into the muffled city street.  She pulled the keys to her ‘95 Lumina out of her top and unlocked the door of her battered vehicle.

In the driver’s seat, she rested her head on the steering wheel and released a sob, loud enough to send her mascara running for cover.  She wiped her face on her arms, knocking off her eyelashes in the process, and put on a hoodie and pair of jeans that waited in the passenger seat.  After a deep and congested breath to slow her tears, she tied up her hair and jabbed the key into the ignition.  Armed with several shots of alcohol and a high tolerance for it, she egged the car on, down the dimly lit street.

Three blocks later, she parked the car in front of a ramshackle apartment complex and found the last door on the lower level.  She took the smallest key on her set and twisted it into the lock.

The door creaked open, and Mrs. Olson crept inside the apartment.  She pulled off her shoes and, in the light that her husband had left on, found Mr. Olson, his head down on their plywood coffee table, and swallowed hard as she approached him, envelope in hand.  She tucked the envelope underneath his elbow and whispered, “It should only be for a little longer.”  She tip-toed toward the bedroom door.

The door skidded across the linoleum floor as she pushed it open.  She stepped one foot into the dark room and stubbed her toe on something that sounded plastic.  She picked the nightlight up off the floor and plugged it into the wall.  The light shone upon a full-size bed where two children between the ages of three and five slept with light snores.

Mrs. Olson climbed into bed with the two and kissed each one on the cheek.  She pulled an extra blanket over them and ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. 

“Momma’s here.”


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