I knew she was trouble when she walked through the door. No one wears an evening gown at two p.m. on a Tuesday in July unless there’s something afoot. And when I say afoot, I don’t mean those legs that went from here to Heaven, though now that you’ve brought it up, they sure did. This doll had skin like a porcelain – well, doll, and that red dress did wonders for what God gave her. She didn’t walk in so much as she slid, making every step look like the mile she took when you gave her an inch. She was smoking one of those fancy cigarettes in a long holder, that make you look like a dame of class even if you’re dirt off the road, and her lips touched it like she knew just what she was making me think. She breathed smoke as she leaned across my desk, brown curls tumbling off her shoulders as she whispered, “Hey there.” Well my suit and tie had never felt so tight, never mind the ratty grey fabric I touched when I adjusted my tie. She lifted delicate painted nails and between them was held, gingerly as a butterfly, a smoking gun. She laid it across the desk, motes of gunpowder like pepper on a steak, and I knew I was in over my head. But I’d be glad to drown in a smile like that. The tip of her tongue touched her ruby lips and she grinned. “Seems I have myself a problem.”
Image courtesy of Kieran Macanulty. Check out Kieran’s website, Purple Sock Studios, or read more about him on Our Contributors Page.