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/FICTOGRAPHY/ def. — The intersection of photography (submitted by readers) and fiction (written by me!).
The above photograph is of the bar at The Four Seasons Hotel in Baltimore. Jenny and I concocted the premise of this story together the other night as we observed some interesting behavior at the bar. Our imaginations went a little wild, and I hope I do this one justice. For those of you who ask me why I don’t write sex scenes, I just don’t have it in me to do it. However, I can lead up to the moment, allowing you to take it from there.
429 words. #flashfiction
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Fictography #20 — A Scene in a Bar
Night falls upon the city.
Upstairs in her hotel room, she examines her long red nails, each one perfectly manicured; however, she finds a flaw, and unscrews the touch up bottle of “Hot Crimson” she keeps with her at all times. Life is too short for chips in one’s nails, for imperfections that can be seen by the naked eye.
Her body is toned from running, yoga, aerobics, and swimming. There is not an ounce of fat on her, and from the neck down, she has the body of a 30-year-old, though she is well past that in years. Her face, though appearing older than her body, has been improved upon with shots of Botox, bi-monthly facials, eyebrow waxing, and nightly anti-aging crème. She selects the backless black dress, the tall heels with crystals, and teardrop crystal earrings.
When she enters the bar, men stare, as they usually do when she walks in a room. Her height warrants a look, as if she could have possibly been a model at some point in her life. She takes a seat at the bar, placing her clutch in front of her. When the bartender asks her what her drink of choice is, she says a Martini, and within moments it arrives for her. She looks across the bar, lifts the olive out of the glass, and seductively pulls it into her mouth.
This is her life, the life of a business executive on the road, away from her husband and children. Away from the daily chores and mundane ways of suburban life. She relishes her time in the city—any city—she plays no favorites. As for the men she meets, she is peculiarly selective. Each one is chosen, and each one must be different. Guilt does not play a factor in any of her decisions, for this is a part of who she has become.
The Italian looking guy with the slicked back hair in the suit is the first to approach her. He looks like he’s stepped off the pages of GQ magazine, though perhaps not as perfect as the men one sees there, but still, he is suave. She wears no wedding ring; it always stays back in the hotel room. She has never been with one so dark and alluring. She deems him an appropriate catch for the night.
The bar is dark, with mood lighting, and she’s thankful for that. Dim lighting helps camouflage her age. He sits next to her and she turns to him. She crosses her leg, letting the slit of her dress go all the way up to her upper thigh, her non-verbal mannerisms suggesting what could be in store for him.
