Tuesday, 9 October 2012

October Flash - Day 8

The Flash Fiction Project at Google+ has something new going on!   There will be a visual prompt for every day in October, and I'm going to try to write a (very) short piece for it every day as well. Due to time zone differences, I'll try writing and posting mine early in the morning, so it's a day after the original post for me, but still the same for them.

Let the fun begin! Here is the prompt for today:

The woman dances like exactly one person is watching, which is true. She needs her partner to want her, so she swings her hips and lifts her arms into the air. She has learned a lot during the previous months.
She uses every time the dance brings them closer together to touch him lightly; on the arm, on the back, on his shoulders. Sometimes, she allows her hand to almost brush against his butt, or an inner thigh. The dancer can see that he notices, even when she does not touch him. Oh, yes.
She moves around him in circles, nearer and nearer, until her breasts brush against him, her warmth melting a bit of his cold. She throws her most beautiful smile at him, from this close it is a powerful weapon. It could be that he blushes a little at this point.
The music fades away now, and she follows it, moving away from her partner, leaving just an outstretched hand behind, begging him silently to take it. He hesitates, then complies.
Together, they leave their dance floor. Now the man is leading the way, holding on to her hand as if it were his anchor during a stormy night at sea. She hardly dares hope that he will let her stay; a part of her knows that he cannot. It is the same part that has - half a year ago - prevented her from falling for his tricks. When last they had danced, he had tried to seduce her like she had now, but she had turned him down. She didn't have a choice, back then. He doesn't have one now.
The man leads her to a bed of flowers. Every colour that can be found in nature can also be found in this bed. It is throbbing with life. It welcomes the woman.
In a last desperate attempt to prevail, she takes his face in her hands and pulls him close. The woman presses her face against his, her burning lips against his cold mouth. The man falters for a moment, holds her tight as he responds to the kiss. Then he gently pushes her away and takes her hand again to help her into the bed. The woman surrenders. It was never meant to be.
"Good night, my lady. Sleep well, until we meet again," says the Wintersmith, as Summer closes her eyes.

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