I'd made a promise as her heels clipped away into rain dazzle; hunched against the weather, alert for the gutter-wave and a man flush with dollars, testosterone rising like scum in a stockpot. I wanted to peel sticky black lashes from her pale lids; expose the freckles that dusted her cheekbones. Wrap her in a white hotel towel. The cigarette butt was damp. It was hers, pressed with lipstick – Hot Ginger Spice – but the ash was cold and I was leaving in an hour. How in hell’s name would I find her in a city I hardly knew?
About the Creator
Stephanie Ginger
Writer, screenwriter, poet, playwright, journalist. I love the drama of life: long, short, on the page or on the screen but always character-driven.
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Comments (1)
"Testosterone rising like scum in a stockpot." That is an amazing line.