Never trust a dame who decorates a chair in designer dress
Greg had a typewriter. He'd been banging out the pages he'd handwritten, and was likely driving not only Nick, but the rest of the people in the dorm insane with the constant clickety-clack. He was fairly adept on a keyboard, but the old fashioned manual had taken some getting used to. He'd gotten used to it, though. Used to it enough, anyway, that his hands had quit cramping up.
He took it down to the laundry room with him, the weekly routine of washing his and Nick's stuff falling conveniently on a day when he had to bust out the stuff about the femme fatale. He loaded the washer, cracked his knuckles, and started to type, laying the pages aside so he could keep on going.
She was tall with hair so black it glimmered
and skin like the finest satin I'd ever seen. She wore
a hint of an unusual scent and a smile that said she
saw through everything and I was one big piece of
crystal. She looked scared, but she wasn't spooked.
I looked at the doll. She looked at me.
I liked what I saw. She had mixed feelings.
The horses don't shy when I pass, but
over the years I've been pounded around enough for
my face to develop a certain amount of character.
She kept smiling that secret smile. It made
me want to look over my shoulder and see what was
gaining on me.
Mike avoided my eye and did a fast fade,
pretending he had to make sure Ginny didn't forget to
close the front door on her way out. Mike wasn't
supposed to let anyone in. They might want me to work.
This dame must have charmed his socks off.
"I'm Nick. Sit."
She wouldn't have to work to charm the
wardrobe off me. She had that something that goes
beyond beauty, beyond style--an aura, a presence. She
was the kind of woman who leaves eunuchs weeping and
priests cursing their vows.
She planted herself in Mike's chair but didn't offer
a name. The impact was wearing off. I began to see the
chill behind that gorgeous mask. I wondered if anyone was
home. About the time I was ready to dial the asylum, she
spoke.
"You don't remember me, do you, Nick?"
"No. Should I?"
"It's been a while. Last time I saw you, I was nine
and you were going off to the Marines."
She sure looked a hell of a lot different than she
had at nine. It took me a minute, since I'm not in the game
of remembering little girls from that long ago. But then it
all fell in place.
"Angel."
The more he thought of, the faster his fingers danced along the keys. He'd given some thought to changing the names, and had resolutely chucked the idea out. It wasn't for the public, this was his hobby. He'd use the names of his friends if he wanted to. Call it...shit, there was some term...oh, yeah. An homage.
[Yeah, you can read what's laying there. Probably some of what's still on the spindle, too. Geekery, noir, laundry, and immediate ST as I sleep as I should]
He took it down to the laundry room with him, the weekly routine of washing his and Nick's stuff falling conveniently on a day when he had to bust out the stuff about the femme fatale. He loaded the washer, cracked his knuckles, and started to type, laying the pages aside so he could keep on going.
She was tall with hair so black it glimmered
and skin like the finest satin I'd ever seen. She wore
a hint of an unusual scent and a smile that said she
saw through everything and I was one big piece of
crystal. She looked scared, but she wasn't spooked.
I looked at the doll. She looked at me.
I liked what I saw. She had mixed feelings.
The horses don't shy when I pass, but
over the years I've been pounded around enough for
my face to develop a certain amount of character.
She kept smiling that secret smile. It made
me want to look over my shoulder and see what was
gaining on me.
Mike avoided my eye and did a fast fade,
pretending he had to make sure Ginny didn't forget to
close the front door on her way out. Mike wasn't
supposed to let anyone in. They might want me to work.
This dame must have charmed his socks off.
"I'm Nick. Sit."
She wouldn't have to work to charm the
wardrobe off me. She had that something that goes
beyond beauty, beyond style--an aura, a presence. She
was the kind of woman who leaves eunuchs weeping and
priests cursing their vows.
She planted herself in Mike's chair but didn't offer
a name. The impact was wearing off. I began to see the
chill behind that gorgeous mask. I wondered if anyone was
home. About the time I was ready to dial the asylum, she
spoke.
"You don't remember me, do you, Nick?"
"No. Should I?"
"It's been a while. Last time I saw you, I was nine
and you were going off to the Marines."
She sure looked a hell of a lot different than she
had at nine. It took me a minute, since I'm not in the game
of remembering little girls from that long ago. But then it
all fell in place.
"Angel."
The more he thought of, the faster his fingers danced along the keys. He'd given some thought to changing the names, and had resolutely chucked the idea out. It wasn't for the public, this was his hobby. He'd use the names of his friends if he wanted to. Call it...shit, there was some term...oh, yeah. An homage.
[Yeah, you can read what's laying there. Probably some of what's still on the spindle, too. Geekery, noir, laundry, and immediate ST as I sleep as I should]