By Stephen Ground
Tired by Tuesday, I’m nosing a bottle alone at my local when a Nine approaches and buys my next three. We dance slow, smoke in heavy snow. Pressed close, she whispers, It’s time. I hail a cab.
Transfixed by my sixteen-karat grin, she squeals, strokes my chest, licks me neck to ear. Dumped by the cabby on the corner of 9th and Nowhere, we clamber to her ramshackle loft. She leaves to freshen up; I drain my flask.
Vision tunneling, my knees buckle. I’m out.
I stir, bleary and bound. Lips forcibly spread.
She laughs. A lighter clicks. Pliers crack enamel.
Turning the tables on date “rape” doesn’t make it any easier to read, in the end; it’s a good thing the guy doesn’t incite sympathy. What a ride.
Good job!
This really gave me the creeps but I read it over and over admiring so much the choice of every word.
This is crafted so well, it should be in textbooks. Every verb pulls its weight and more; very muscular story. Usually the protagonist is whom we root for, but his callow reference to the woman at the start shaves off any affinity I felt – which is good. Not that I felt affinity with her either. I just felt they deserved one another. Kudos!
P S. Those last 3 words make my teeth hurt.
Love the craft and description and verb use of this story, great writing. 🙂