Celebrate the Small Things 2-9-22

 

It's the end of the week, so it's time to Celebrate the Small things...

What am I celebrating this week?

It's the weekend!  And apparently it's spring, although you wouldn't know it from the weather.

I've been writing some flash fiction this week, using prompts from the writing community website I use and only allowing myself a half hour from seeing the prompt to uploading.  

I thought I'd share this story I wrote because I actually kind of like it.  So enjoy some reading over the weekend!  The prompt is in red.  Do let me know what you think!

SCARLETT

by Kate Larkindale

I first saw her across the room at a party. It was late enough that the crowds of people were thinning out. She laughed and I realised I’d been hearing that laugh all night. I looked in the direction the infectious, throaty laughter came from and found myself looking at the most fascinating woman I’d ever seen.

She was small; the group of friends surrounding her all towered over her. Yet she didn’t seem small. She was a woman who took up space in the world. Her hair was long and dark, shot through here and there with streaks of crimson, gold, turquoise and jade. She wore it loose so it fell across her back and shoulders like a shawl.

Her boots were chunky, but bright pink and above them, her fishnet stockings were scarlet. The legs beneath them were well muscled with the thick, strong-looking thighs of a regular cyclist, her skirt short enough to make that assessment. Coloured bracelets jangled on her wrists and ropes of beads swung from her neck.

I’ve always been a sucker for a femme, and this girl was as femme as they came. She was the type of girl who wanted to live in a pink house. A princess used to those around her doing her bidding. I knew the type all to well, but unfortunately, I was smitten.

I wove through the people on what had been a makeshift dancefloor until about an hour ago. I didn’t want to think about what I’d call it now, but the words “pig room” flittered across my mind. I pushed them away, not wanting this moment to be associated with something as sordid as bathhouse culture.

She turned as I moved into the cluster of people surrounding her, the one I already thought of as her court. Her eyes widened and her head cocked in my direction. She was curious; I could see that much. And why wouldn’t she be? I’m not being arrogant when I say I’m a good looking woman. I have eyes and a mirror and I’d fuck me. Besides, I’ve had enough people – both men and women – tell me I’m not bad to look at.

“Who are you?” she said with a toss of that magnificent hair.

“Jill,” I told her. “And you’re?”

“Scar,” she says with a smirk. “Short for Scarlett.”

Well, at least it wasn’t Rose.

“Charmed to make your acquaintance. Could I interest you in a drink?”

She slid closer. “Here or somewhere else?”

This was going better than I could have hoped. “Whichever you prefer.”

She glanced across at her friends and wrinkled her nose, an adorable gesture that made my knees liquid. “Let’s get out of here. I think this party was over at least an hour ago.”

She pulled a short, studded leather jacket from the pile of coats piled across the back of the sofa and slipped it on. “Shall we?”

“You don’t need to tell your friends?”

She shook her head and laughed that throaty, irresistible laugh. “They know me.”

We stepped out into the chilly night and fell into step as we turned toward the bright lights of the city. This time of night there were no buses, but my apartment was downtown and so were the bars that plied their wares into the wee hours of the morning.

“What do you do, Jill?” she asked as we moved in and out of the puddles of light cast by the streetlights. “Something interesting? Please don’t tell me you work in IT or something.”

“I’m a butcher,” I told her. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

She laughed again. “No. I like steak and bacon far too much to be a vegetarian. What’s it like being a butcher? Must be hard work.”

“Sometimes. It’s heavy work. It’s how I maintain these babies.” I flexed my biceps and let her squeeze the hard lumps of muscle cording my arms. “What about you? What do you do?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’m an accountant.”

I raised my eyebrows. I was thinking florist or early childhood teacher. She did not look like any accountant I knew. She didn’t act like one either. I couldn’t picture her in an office, poring over a spreadsheet and tapping away on a calculator. But that could be my bias.

“Enjoy it?”

She nodded and her face lit up. “I do. There’s such satisfaction in a column of numbers that balance. And when they don’t, it’s like a puzzle or a mystery to find where the mistake is. I love it.”

For the first time math had some appeal. I’d never been much for finance. Never needed to be. I worked for other people and they paid me. And sometimes I worked for myself and reaped my own rewards.

As I planned to do tonight. This delicious specimen guaranteed a hefty payday. My clients in Japan alone would make this one worthwhile.

“So, where are we going?” she asked as we found ourselves on The Strip, holding hands to keep from being separated by the folk spilling onto the sidewalks from the late-night bars.

“My place is just up the block,” I said. “Or there’s O’Brien’s just across the street.”

She made a face at the mention of the notorious lesbian bar. “Your place sounds quieter. O’Brien’s is such a meat market.”

I nodded my agreement and quickened my step as we got closer to my place.

“You live above the butchery?” she said as I unlocked the door and showed her in, leaving the lights off at the front and leading her past the refrigerators to the stainless steel room at the back. The flourescents flickered on, bathing the dull metal walls in cool, white light.

I watched her take in the hooks hanging from the ceiling, the wide drainage channels in the floor and the selection of knives laid out on the tables.

Knives so sharp she didn’t even scream when I cut her throat.