Short stories: Love

Excursion into Philosophy (related to Edward Hopper’s art)

The usual crowd shuffles into the smoky air, usual all except a young lady. Her scent agitates our nostrils, tearing them away from the pungent aroma of spirits me and the other guys are used to. We all look up from our glasses, the poor girls walked straight into the lion’s den. She is going to be walking away in one of these mens arms tonight, and these dogs will do anything to get a girl into their trousers, I’ve seen it. She sits down at the bar next to me but were still separated by one chair If I don’t act quickly one of the lads will sweep in and take the seat, ruining my chances. But no, a touch of luck, she takes off her scarf and handbag and places them on the seat, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

“Hi, sorry, do you have a light?” She’s talking to me. Too shocked to react at first I turn and just stare at her beautiful breasts. “Hello?”

“Oh yeah, of course sorry.” I take out my clipper and hand it to her, expecting that to be the end of our brief and passionate relationship. She puts the cigarette to her mouth and cradles the butt with soft succulent lips, staining it with a deep red lipstick. This is enough to turn on half the guys in the bar already, but I have to play it cool if I have a chance.

“So what’s your name?” she’s turned on me straddling the white stick with her fingers and leans on the bar-top.

“My name?” Is this a joke? Of all cities and all the bars and all the losers like me, this gorgeous thing is asking my name. The hands been dealt, and I’m in. “John Smith”

“Would you like another drink, John?” Now its getting intimate, she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into, its gonna be a long night, poor girl.

The receptionist at the desk of the hotel knows what we’re here for as well as I do. This girl is so totaled I’m having to grab her under the arms to hold her up. Fringe pressed to her forehead, sodden with sweat, she’s not the fox we all remembered at the bar, but she’ll do for a quick night.

“Room sixteen up the stairs on your right.” The old lady at the desk in this sleazy hotel looks topped up to the eyebrows on coffee, and she’d have to be, at this hour. As I’m heaving my trophy up the stairs, I see a picture hanging on the wall, identical to the one hanging in our hallway My wife chose it.

I hate it when this happens, spreading waves of guilt over my body like honey on toast. Last week I was carrying another young girl to a hotel when we walked