This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
The stranger was a big guy, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, narrow-waisted, with biceps bulging and threatening to tear the sleeves of the black tee that clung tight to his torso. He had longish hair, but not too long. He wore it in kind of a Jackson Browne way.
Cheryl did not mind. She liked big guys; in some ways, she grinned to herself; the bigger, the better. After all, a big strong guy can carry more groceries, make short work of home repairs, and things like that. She smoothed down her skirt, sucked in her gut, thrust out her chest, and wove her way through the tables to where he sat alone at the bar.
“You mind if I sit here,” she batted her eyes and asked.
He glanced at her and waved his hand dismissively at the empty stool, “Help yourself,” he replied. He brushed his hair behind his ear.
“Thanks,” Cheryl said and took the seat. She waved at Dennis, who was pouring drinks down the bar in the other direction. He held up one finger to acknowledge Cheryl and returned to work, pouring drinks.
Cheryl studied the hunk she was sitting next to. He hadn’t seemed very outgoing, but she wanted desperately to speak with him. She opened with, “So, you probably hear this all the time, but do you know you look like Jackson Browne?” The big guy didn’t react, so she pressed on. “Well, that is, if Jackson Browne was built like you. If Jackson Browne were a ripped body builder, he would look exactly like you.”
She paused, and the big guy only shifted his eyes a bit. She imagined that would be how he might track a pesky fly on a summer day.
Dennis sauntered down, “Hi, Cheryl!” he said, “You want the usual?”
“Oh, hi Dennis, I’ll have…” she pointed at the big guy’s glass, “whatever this guy’s having.” She touched her fingertips to his forearm and inhaled a sharp breath of desire as Ripped Jackson Browne pulled his arm back and Dennis moved to grab a bottle of Jack Black, from in front of the mirror.
When her drink came Cheryl concluded that if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound. She started talking.
“I don’t know how your day’s been,” she started, “but I’ve been looking forward to a drink since about noon. It was a heckuva day at work.” She glanced at Ripped Jackson Browne and saw him shift his eyes towards her, then rapidly away again. She continued, “Mr Fusco was in a mood, and I couldn’t seem to do anything right.” She sipped her bourbon, “I don’t think Mr Fusco’s been getting any lately! You know what I mean?” She nudged him with her elbow to suggest a camaraderie that didn’t yet exist.
When her reluctant drinking companion grinned crookedly, she took heart. She turned on her barstool and looked straight at the side of his head. His eyes remained fixed on the mirror.
“I’m Cheryl,” she said. She held out her hand and waited for him to shake and introduce himself, but when he didn’t take the bait right away, she said, “Hey, Mr Browne, Are you gonna get up and leave, or are you gonna introduce yourself?”
As if realizing he had no choice, he held out his hand and took hers. “Archie,” he said, “name’s Archie.” He brushed his hair behind his ear again, and this time, Cheryl noticed a ‘V-shaped’ notch was missing from the top of his ear. It had obviously happened a long time ago. It was not a fresh wound.
“Nice to meet you, Archie. It is a bit early, but I’d like you to stick around a while. You look like someone I might want to invite home. Maybe get you to tell me what happened to your ear.”
This week’s prompts are:
- no money, no friends
- a long Monday
- a blind alley