Cold as Ice
He’s bought flowers, set a table, opened a bottle of Chablis. He’s methodical, gone by the book—literally. R&B drifts from a stereo. Candles flicker appropriately.
I’ve washed my hair with lavender shampoo. I’ve shaved. Showered the rancid fluids, the sweat, from my body. The windows had fogged while it snowed, the sagging suspension rocked, groans muffled from the back seat of a rusty Nova SS in a parking lot.
He’s cooked, yet his fingertips trailing across my flesh, the lines of my throat, the curve of my breast, are cold. I flinch, grit my teeth, and reach for the Chablis.
Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories