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Friday, April 1, 2011


by Catherine Partin

I leaned up against him in the dark, cradling a martini glass in my hand.  A thin wet ribbon of lemon peel clung limply to the shallow sides of the glass.  The taste in my mouth was soapy, alcoholic, stringent and powdery soft all at once.  The cloth of his dinner jacket rasped against my white shoulders, harsh and silky.  I could have easily watched the red end of a cigarette smoldering in the dark, tasted the ash on my tongue, had I had handy a pack, but neither of us smoked.  I kicked off my shoes and curled my stockinged feet up under me.  His fingers played with mine, distractedly.  There was not a single solitary thought in my head, just the night breeze on my skin, the glitter of lights in the square fourteen stories below, the tinkle of glass and distant murmers broken now and then by a muffled burst of laughter.  A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth and I let myself smirk.  What?  Nothing.  I’m just so happy.

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