The Pick-Up

Hannah studied the man at the bar. Pouty lips. Chisled cheekbones. Spiky blond hair. He would be hers.

He spotted her. “Buy you a drink?”

Bottles of wine shared. Hannah liked his knowledge about cloud busting. John liked Hannah’s Shakira hips.

“Go back to my place?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, hot, bothered.

Electricity zinged. A tongue-lashing kiss inside the dark house. More fervent ones as they tangoed in rapture to the bedroom.

“Is that a dead body on the couch?” John asked.

Hannah shrieked.

“It’s my ex-boyfriend,” she gasped.

Hannah grabbed the phone. John inched toward the front door.

Pressing the Flesh

He looked down from the penthouse, studying the vacationers on the beach.

Did they know he was up there?

If he went, he would be swarmed. Kids wanting his autograph. Moms pushing babies into his arms. Dads asking his opinions on the war.

He missed it, the Oval Office, the power. He still had some, but “Hail to the Chief” no longer played.

The isolation drove him mad. Must go. He changed into casual designer beachwear and threw on a straw hat. Good photo outfit. Media guaranteed.

He called his Secret Service protection. “I’m going for a walk.”

Slipping Away

She wore only a black slip.

In her left hand, a guitar. Her right, a tambourine.

Opening the front door, she sashayed in. Peppermint incense and vanilla candles burned.

He lounged in a red velvet chair.

“Play,” he said.

She did.

“Another,” he said.

She complied, shimmering erotically, belting about diamonds and furs. He had bought her many. She gave them to friends. Such things did not suit her bohemian life.

“Enough, be gone,” he said.

Forever, she thought.

She placed her instruments in the car’s trunk beside a plastic box of all she owned. Yes, goodbye. Hello, new life.