Nine Days in the City

The smoke that was hanging around the room slowly lifted, as the ceiling fan beat its tuneless melody above us. Not all the haze was coming from the filterless cigarette snuggly held in her blood-red nailed hand. No, some was going from the nozzle of the .45, and some from the body at her feet.

‘I expect you would like me to explain’ she drawled, placing the Colt on the table and snapping open the white leather handbag swinging beside those dangerous curves. The clasps were shaped like snakes fighting, but fighting to get in or get out wasn’t clear. Setting aside a pair silk elbow-length gloves, she produced a ticket. She lifted it up, pressed it to her lips, leaving behind an outline in a red that matched her nails.

‘So long, Joe’ with a flick of ash and ash-blonde, scraping my soul with those lashes that reached to heaven. Leaving me staring at the ticket now clasped in my hand, and a lingering impression of some upmarket perfume. Too good for the likes of me. I will stick to what I know. Broads. Open roads. Flat countryside. Beat-up old sports cars. None of this walled in living.

The fast city speeds without me. The bright lights shine on someone else. The ticket she left was one way, so it don’t look like my flatfeet will tread these roads again anytime soon. Brief affairs burn out, but the afterglow it leaves lingers much longer than that.

To be continued…(but not in London)