| General Fiction posted August 23, 2022 |
  |
The twists and turns of poor choices
Life Contortions
by Rachelle Allen
The Night After Contest Winner
I force my eyes half-open and hope for the best. There is a mirror directly above me, bolted to the canopy portion of this massive mahogany bed. SUCH a bad start.
In it, I can see that the only thing more rumpled than my shoulder-length curls is the sheet, bunched at the bottom of the vacated side of the bed. It looks like meringue that's been pummeled by a toddler.
The impression of the evacuee's body lingers in the memory foam mattress --quite long with a shallow indentation, so, probably thin as well as tall. I see enough tiny circles of dark hair on the pillowcase and fitted sheet, though, to wonder if I've spent the night with a poodle...except, they don't shed.
I listen a second. It's an operatic poodle.
Whoever he is, he's singing in the shower. No, that's too generous. He's actually caterwauling. At least this narrows down his identity a bit. A few of last night's karaoke candidates actually sounded pretty decent.
In Vegas, everyone seems to think they're headliner material, so when they discover I'm a talent scout, they outdo themselves on stage. Thing is, the best singers I've ever found have come from the teeniest little dive bars in Podunk, USA.
I look around for my clothes but notice only the caterwauler's. Noooo! A fringe-and-spangled Western shirt and two-toned alligator boots? What new low have I sunk to? And where are his pants? More to the point, where the hell are MINE? I need to make like a tree and leave. No time to waste.
Just as I jump out of bed, the bathroom door opens with gusto and a very tall, slim, well-muscled man-beast appears in all his naked glory. Well, sort of naked. He's so hairy, I honestly can't even see his skin. I am sure I have discovered the missing link that has eluded scientists for centuries and am agape at the realization that, only a few hours earlier, he was my bedmate. This is getting worse by the minute. I HATE hairy men!
"ALLOOOO!" he says with some kind of European accent that my booze-frowsy ears can't discern. "You remember me, yes? ENZO!"
I try to plumb my brain for even the slightest nugget of recollection. Nothing.
"Cassie," I say back, trying to keep my eyes on his.
"Yes, yes!" Enzo says. "I remember! I remember it ALL!" He pumps his hips.
Oh, please, someone come here and kill me this instant!
"Enzo, can you remind me how we met? I'm a little foggy here."
"Foggy?" He looks perplexed.
I pantomime drinking a shot, followed by the universal sign for crazy.
"Ohhh! Enzo see!" He nods with vigor and an unapologetically lascivious smile. "Enzo in same bar as you after show!"
"Show?" I echo.
"Cirque de Soleil. Enzo contortionist!"
I am feeling SO extremely unwell.
"Cassie very flexible, too!" Enzo adds, looking like a deranged, hairy bobblehead now. He does the Vanna White sweep with both arms toward the mangled bedclothes. "Again?" asks Enzo, showing enough restraint not to salivate, at least.
"No, no, Enzo. I'm so sorry," I tell him. "I wish I could, but I have meetings that are going to start in a half hour." I say this without a clue in the world what time it could possibly be. "I have to zip."
"Zip?" He has that befuddled look again.
"Go. Go fast. Leave. Hurry-hurry."
He looks utterly crestfallen, like a dog whose owner is deserting him at the pound.
"Do you know where my clothes are?" I'm trying not to sound as desperate and panicked --and, okay, I admit it, guilty-- as I feel. I'm silently making vows of sobriety, contrition and sexual abstinence to any spirit who can hear me.
"Enzo fold them and put them in dresser," he says softly. "They so beautiful, like you. No should have wrinkles."
I give him an appreciative smile. "Oh, Enzo, thank you. That was very sweet of you."
"Yeah?" His eyes light up again and his head begins to bobble. "We go again?"
"Uh, no," I say quickly. "Sorry. I really have to go."
He returns to his sad dog state.
I dress with the speed of someone trying to outrun an explosion of molten lava. I do a quick inventory of my purse --keys, money, cards all perfectly intact-- and give Enzo a quick toodle-wave as I dart out the door.
Three steps away, I hear Enzo's voice. "Allooo? Svetlana? You come room 385? We make good hubba-hubba playtime, okay?"
I force my eyes half-open and hope for the best. There is a mirror directly above me, bolted to the canopy portion of this massive mahogany bed. SUCH a bad start.
In it, I can see that the only thing more rumpled than my shoulder-length curls is the sheet, bunched at the bottom of the vacated side of the bed. It looks like meringue that's been pummeled by a toddler.
The impression of the evacuee's body lingers in the memory foam mattress --quite long with a shallow indentation, so, probably thin as well as tall. I see enough tiny circles of dark hair on the pillowcase and fitted sheet, though, to wonder if I've spent the night with a poodle...except, they don't shed.
I listen a second. It's an operatic poodle.
Whoever he is, he's singing in the shower. No, that's too generous. He's actually caterwauling. At least this narrows down his identity a bit. A few of last night's karaoke candidates actually sounded pretty decent.
In Vegas, everyone seems to think they're headliner material, so when they discover I'm a talent scout, they outdo themselves on stage. Thing is, the best singers I've ever found have come from the teeniest little dive bars in Podunk, USA.
I look around for my clothes but notice only the caterwauler's. Noooo! A fringe-and-spangled Western shirt and two-toned alligator boots? What new low have I sunk to? And where are his pants? More to the point, where the hell are MINE? I need to make like a tree and leave. No time to waste.
Just as I jump out of bed, the bathroom door opens with gusto and a very tall, slim, well-muscled man-beast appears in all his naked glory. Well, sort of naked. He's so hairy, I honestly can't even see his skin. I am sure I have discovered the missing link that has eluded scientists for centuries and am agape at the realization that, only a few hours earlier, he was my bedmate. This is getting worse by the minute. I HATE hairy men!
"ALLOOOO!" he says with some kind of European accent that my booze-frowsy ears can't discern. "You remember me, yes? ENZO!"
I try to plumb my brain for even the slightest nugget of recollection. Nothing.
"Cassie," I say back, trying to keep my eyes on his.
"Yes, yes!" Enzo says. "I remember! I remember it ALL!" He pumps his hips.
Oh, please, someone come here and kill me this instant!
"Enzo, can you remind me how we met? I'm a little foggy here."
"Foggy?" He looks perplexed.
I pantomime drinking a shot, followed by the universal sign for crazy.
"Ohhh! Enzo see!" He nods with vigor and an unapologetically lascivious smile. "Enzo in same bar as you after show!"
"Show?" I echo.
"Cirque de Soleil. Enzo contortionist!"
I am feeling SO extremely unwell.
"Cassie very flexible, too!" Enzo adds, looking like a deranged, hairy bobblehead now. He does the Vanna White sweep with both arms toward the mangled bedclothes. "Again?" asks Enzo, showing enough restraint not to salivate, at least.
"No, no, Enzo. I'm so sorry," I tell him. "I wish I could, but I have meetings that are going to start in a half hour." I say this without a clue in the world what time it could possibly be. "I have to zip."
"Zip?" He has that befuddled look again.
"Go. Go fast. Leave. Hurry-hurry."
He looks utterly crestfallen, like a dog whose owner is deserting him at the pound.
"Do you know where my clothes are?" I'm trying not to sound as desperate and panicked --and, okay, I admit it, guilty-- as I feel. I'm silently making vows of sobriety, contrition and sexual abstinence to any spirit who can hear me.
"Enzo fold them and put them in dresser," he says softly. "They so beautiful, like you. No should have wrinkles."
I give him an appreciative smile. "Oh, Enzo, thank you. That was very sweet of you."
"Yeah?" His eyes light up again and his head begins to bobble. "We go again?"
"Uh, no," I say quickly. "Sorry. I really have to go."
He returns to his sad dog state.
I dress with the speed of someone trying to outrun an explosion of molten lava. I do a quick inventory of my purse --keys, money, cards all perfectly intact-- and give Enzo a quick toodle-wave as I dart out the door.
Three steps away, I hear Enzo's voice. "Allooo? Svetlana? You come room 385? We make good hubba-hubba playtime, okay?"
In it, I can see that the only thing more rumpled than my shoulder-length curls is the sheet, bunched at the bottom of the vacated side of the bed. It looks like meringue that's been pummeled by a toddler.
The impression of the evacuee's body lingers in the memory foam mattress --quite long with a shallow indentation, so, probably thin as well as tall. I see enough tiny circles of dark hair on the pillowcase and fitted sheet, though, to wonder if I've spent the night with a poodle...except, they don't shed.
I listen a second. It's an operatic poodle.
Whoever he is, he's singing in the shower. No, that's too generous. He's actually caterwauling. At least this narrows down his identity a bit. A few of last night's karaoke candidates actually sounded pretty decent.
In Vegas, everyone seems to think they're headliner material, so when they discover I'm a talent scout, they outdo themselves on stage. Thing is, the best singers I've ever found have come from the teeniest little dive bars in Podunk, USA.
I look around for my clothes but notice only the caterwauler's. Noooo! A fringe-and-spangled Western shirt and two-toned alligator boots? What new low have I sunk to? And where are his pants? More to the point, where the hell are MINE? I need to make like a tree and leave. No time to waste.
Just as I jump out of bed, the bathroom door opens with gusto and a very tall, slim, well-muscled man-beast appears in all his naked glory. Well, sort of naked. He's so hairy, I honestly can't even see his skin. I am sure I have discovered the missing link that has eluded scientists for centuries and am agape at the realization that, only a few hours earlier, he was my bedmate. This is getting worse by the minute. I HATE hairy men!
"ALLOOOO!" he says with some kind of European accent that my booze-frowsy ears can't discern. "You remember me, yes? ENZO!"
I try to plumb my brain for even the slightest nugget of recollection. Nothing.
"Cassie," I say back, trying to keep my eyes on his.
"Yes, yes!" Enzo says. "I remember! I remember it ALL!" He pumps his hips.
Oh, please, someone come here and kill me this instant!
"Enzo, can you remind me how we met? I'm a little foggy here."
"Foggy?" He looks perplexed.
I pantomime drinking a shot, followed by the universal sign for crazy.
"Ohhh! Enzo see!" He nods with vigor and an unapologetically lascivious smile. "Enzo in same bar as you after show!"
"Show?" I echo.
"Cirque de Soleil. Enzo contortionist!"
I am feeling SO extremely unwell.
"Cassie very flexible, too!" Enzo adds, looking like a deranged, hairy bobblehead now. He does the Vanna White sweep with both arms toward the mangled bedclothes. "Again?" asks Enzo, showing enough restraint not to salivate, at least.
"No, no, Enzo. I'm so sorry," I tell him. "I wish I could, but I have meetings that are going to start in a half hour." I say this without a clue in the world what time it could possibly be. "I have to zip."
"Zip?" He has that befuddled look again.
"Go. Go fast. Leave. Hurry-hurry."
He looks utterly crestfallen, like a dog whose owner is deserting him at the pound.
"Do you know where my clothes are?" I'm trying not to sound as desperate and panicked --and, okay, I admit it, guilty-- as I feel. I'm silently making vows of sobriety, contrition and sexual abstinence to any spirit who can hear me.
"Enzo fold them and put them in dresser," he says softly. "They so beautiful, like you. No should have wrinkles."
I give him an appreciative smile. "Oh, Enzo, thank you. That was very sweet of you."
"Yeah?" His eyes light up again and his head begins to bobble. "We go again?"
"Uh, no," I say quickly. "Sorry. I really have to go."
He returns to his sad dog state.
I dress with the speed of someone trying to outrun an explosion of molten lava. I do a quick inventory of my purse --keys, money, cards all perfectly intact-- and give Enzo a quick toodle-wave as I dart out the door.
Three steps away, I hear Enzo's voice. "Allooo? Svetlana? You come room 385? We make good hubba-hubba playtime, okay?"
The Night After Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Rachelle Allen All rights reserved.
Rachelle Allen has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
