Sunday, 1 July 2012

Toothpaste Kisses


Her shoes matched her lipstick. He wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't tried to put her foot behind her head. The booth's low light poured down the pear curve of her upturned calf, sheer tights sparkling in alluded silk. His gazed slalommed to halfway down her thigh, where the edges of her short grey wool skirt clapped against either side of the stretched flesh. A narrow ladder, like a mouth, marked a taught line his eyes didn't dare to cross. The mouth opened wider, teasing him with a broad smile of white skin.

As she pulled tighter on the back of her ankle, cocking her knee, her hips thrust closer too him. Her skirt hiked higher and another inch of her slid free as if she were being squeezed out like toothpaste.
His eyes switched nervously to the five empty glasses on the smooth black table; two Martinis, two mojitos and her untouched water, so much for good intentions.

Later, she kissed his hand while telling him he was her favourite guy in the office. The smeared vermilion on his palm was all the colour left in yet another familiar evening going nowhere. Her shoes were removed by someone else that night. His stayed on, eventually covered by a blanket pulled lazily over his half-tanked frame. He slept, one curled hand clutch tight to his chest. He dreamt it grew mint.

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