An experimental foray into fiction–this is part an exercise we did in our Writer’s Group. We each had 10 minutes to write something that began with “I was ________ like ______“; and ended with “This story ends with ____“
by Keith Hoffman
I was purring like a kitten with his gut full of mother’s milk as I lay on top of the lumpy mattress in the hot sticky motel room.
He pulled on his jeans, tucked in the shirt he hadn’t even bothered to take off, pulled on boots over the sweaty socks on his feet then walked out the door still fumbling with his belt when it shut behind him.
As I heard his truck start and back out with the headlights crawling across the wall like some pornographic movie, I tried to recall in my foggy post-coital haze if he told me his name.
My slip lay in a heap on the stained rug but I was too lazy to reach down to pick it up.
He paid for the whole night and no one would miss me if I just stayed here until morning.
That thought comforted me if I didn’t think too hard about how fuckng pathetic it was.
My mama might call me later tonight but I’d just tell her I had a few too many at the bar and passed out and didn’t hear the phone ringing or the click of the answering machine.
God I want a cigarette but that would involve me rolling over and trying to find my pack of Chesterfields.
This story ends with me walking out into the parking lot in the cold harsh dawn straightening my wrinkled uniform and heading off to work.
Another encounter soon to be forgotten.