I entered my first Fast Fiction competition recently. 55 hours. 500 words.
Story must include:
…someone PACKING A SUITCASE.
…the phrase “ACROSS A CROWDED ROOM” (as dialogue or narrative).
…the words CHARM, CRUSH and FAINT.
She arrived with nothing but hopes of rest and recovery from emotional baggage accrued over years of dysfunctional relationships, not least with herself.
Queues across a crowded room moved seamlessly, and the visa-purchase formality was over easily. Packing only her hand-luggage suitcase had saved her from the crush at the baggage carousel.
The taxi ride was chaotic yet uneventful, her inadequate map on the back of a slightly out-of-town hotel business card gave her no clue as to her whereabouts. Sweaty and hobbling, her eagerness for accommodation intensified, to rest her ankle she’d twisted when she tripped landing spread-eagle on the tiles at the airport toilet.
She wondered if not bringing a guidebook had been foolhardy. Trepidation intensifying, the road changed to cobblestones laid in patterns of flowers. A charming archway led to a reception for bungalows. For an adequate price hers had a porch overlooking an immaculate, lush garden. The bed in her room vast enough for her entire little family, affording her space to stretch across instead of curling up with two hot-water-bottles for warmth as she had done through Melbourne’s winter.
The route to the pool took her directly past another bungalow, a shirtless man sat, hunched.
“Hello”
He mumbled, indecipherable.
She continued to the pool. Diving cleansing the afternoon’s sweat from her scalp. Bamboo canes towered the fence-line and drooped towards the river beyond. She contemplated the whirlwind of the previous months that had spat her out. Laid back, her body drank in stillness. She’d keep her swimmers on. For now.
Ascending the narrow stairs, the stranger still on his porch, introduced himself. They seemed to have a similar offbeat wit, conversing over the usual getting to-know-you topics.
…eventually inviting her to join him walking. Despite her ankle screaming, she found herself accepting, conditionally that they find a massage parlour. She had promised herself a massage every day.
Each day they met, walking, eating, sharing coconuts, tea and theatre. She suppressed urges to reach and slip her fingers between his.
The eve of her departure, sharing wine and philosophy, he moved to share the sun-lounger. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt at ease with a man. He moved his hand resting gently on her waist, nuzzling his head into her neck.
She returned his kiss.
Their lips exploring each other’s crevices.
She wanted time to slow down. He moved his hand down from her waist, stroking her thigh, then the curves of her buttocks until his feather-soft-touch between her legs.
He asked for her consent. Lost in sensations she’d forgotten she was capable, they proceeded inside, neither hesitant now. He traced the outlines of her bosom.
Both, as if wanting to remember every centimetre of the other.
“Are you ready?… Have I done my duties?”
She slid from his embrace, sat, and replied calmly, “Baby, if pleasuring your lady is a duty, then you’re with the wrong woman.”
She stood, never looking back.
