She excused herself and squeezed by me, a gentle hand at my hip. Textbook move.
An upturned glass followed, ending with a puddle of Cabernet on my coffee table. She apologized, blushed even. A nice touch.
Having disappeared into the kitchen, she reemerged with rags and refills. I had offered, but she insisted. Now I know why.
I heard her laugh, smelled her leather stilettos. Little else worked. I’d never be getting off this living room floor.
She finally stepped into view, angry and defiant, while punching numbers into her cell.
Christ, what’s the rest of her plan look like?
The Weekday One Hundred 