A Much Shorter Story

"I'm a straight arrow..." "Really...?" she says. "...rather, I'm a crooked arrow with a straight shot." "Much better..." she says, stroking a lick of the lengthy blonde and mohagony fire of hair ablaze, alighting amber eyes, "...now I'm not disappointed in you."

A Swap of Consideration


His post was published in the artists section of the craigslist community, seeking a fellow writer within which to trade feedback, his work a scripted tale of a bedeviled bounty killer, hers a novella regarding emerging bisexuality. They exchange emails and quips, personalities seeming to click through the keys. Meeting in person, trading hard-copies, they share a joint. She is El-Salvadoran, late-twenties, coffee-tone lending a contemporary flavor to her 1950’s pin-up figure, lashes complemented by fully inviting lips. The ash burning halfway, there’s space between them, the joint extinguished, she sits nestled beneath his arm, head resting against his chest as she exhales the last gust of smoke.
“Fuck… I hate to say it, but I need to get to class… we’ll meet soon, see how the reading is coming.”
Deep brown glimmers with mutual reluctance as his green stare fades. Rising, shouldering a suede messenger bag, he takes her hand tenderly, helping her up.
“I’m busy until Friday, but I’ll call you, I’m excited to get started.” She says.
“No doubt on that. I’ll show you out.”
He does, holding doors, impressing her with quite unfamiliar expressions of gentlemanly behavior, as chivalry is oft dead, particularly considering the girl’s line of work.

Working on a piece his phone rings, recognizing the number, sensing an energy, answering.
“What up Kaera.”
“Hey You.”
She’s had a fight with her open-relationship boyfriend. Fucking strangers is acceptable. Fucking best-friends apparently is not. Obviously stressed, he offers a session to lift her spirits should it be desired. It is. She talks. He listens. They stop. They smile.
Moving in, they share the first embrace, tongues meeting, experiencing, adapting, flowing. Passion sparked, she mounts him, gyrating in a practiced professional rhythm. Pulling off his shirt, scratching down abdominals, red nails flutter as she unbuttons his jeans, likewise disrobed, foreplayed.
Slipping into intimacy they fade seamlessly between intense lust and an almost romantic synergy, their flows having synced powerfully.
Time having passed and the crescendo orchestrated they appreciate a moment in passing admiration. She bites her lip, he licks his.
Rising, he assists in clasping her black lingerie, watching admiringly as she slides on her pants, hopping with effort to slip them on. I pull up my jeans, zipping, buttoning, tightening the belt and clasping it. She helps him slip on his t-shirt and he does the same.

Strolling arm-in-arm outside the warm afternoon sun strikes their flesh, a cool breeze skittering past, rustling the trumpeting blossoms along the drive. She perks up onto her tippy-toes, sharing a last kiss, her lips remaining against his for the length of an indulgent blink. Stepping down she wraps herself around his midsection, cheek nestling against chest, his muscles first tensing, releasing as he feels the realness of her embrace, returning. Pressing hard, pulling reluctantly away, remaining in one another’s arms for a beat, bittersweet vibes exchanged through a gaze, they’ve come together in parting.