The woman arrived at Craig's apartment around eight. She brought only two suitcases, and small ones at that. He couldn't imagine someone living on so little for this long, let alone in someone else's home. Of course he had twice as many bags as she. And he was leaving to go stay in his brother's home. So really it's the same thing, he thought as he showed the woman around the small rooms of his apartment.
The woman was tall, shapely with round hips, a sufficient ass. She had an accent, and being the kind of man who wants to know, he asked her where she was from. Her hair was jet black, but her skin was a soft peach color, so he was surprised when she said Rio. The name curled from her lips. Craig couldn't remember if Rio was in Brazil or Argentina, but he was sure it was one of those kinds of places.
He offered her the pot of coffee he'd just made, gave her a set of keys he'd had copied yesterday and carried his bags out to the car.
Driving away, he wondered what kind of a person just moves into another's home for three months. What sort of life did this woman lead that she would move into a home that was not her own, would live amongst things that were not her own? He suddenly felt a wave of revulsion at the thought of letting this stranger, this transient into his home. Craig wondered what she would do it in his bed, and who she would do it with. He would throw out the linens, he reasoned, throw them out and get new ones when he returned.
The airport was almost empty and he walked directly onto the plane. It too was almost empty. He sat next to the window, set one of his bags on the seat next to him just in case. Nobody flies at nine in the morning. Not on a Tuesday. Not around here.
The girlfriend was waiting for him when he landed. They had arranged it in advance; she would be standing outside next to the statue. Nobody flies at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday, she had said, so it wouldn't be hard for them to find each other.
She didn't look like he expected. What he had expected was another matter entirely, but clearly this was not it. She looked nice, tan and fit in dark jeans, a little makeup on her small face, brown hair washed and pulled back. A few strands escaped, but still. She looked too good to be the girlfriend of of a man who had just died.
P.S If there is one person you can't stop thinking about post this sentence in your journal. ...this is taken from Rose 's Journal so spread children , spread...
The woman was tall, shapely with round hips, a sufficient ass. She had an accent, and being the kind of man who wants to know, he asked her where she was from. Her hair was jet black, but her skin was a soft peach color, so he was surprised when she said Rio. The name curled from her lips. Craig couldn't remember if Rio was in Brazil or Argentina, but he was sure it was one of those kinds of places.
He offered her the pot of coffee he'd just made, gave her a set of keys he'd had copied yesterday and carried his bags out to the car.
Driving away, he wondered what kind of a person just moves into another's home for three months. What sort of life did this woman lead that she would move into a home that was not her own, would live amongst things that were not her own? He suddenly felt a wave of revulsion at the thought of letting this stranger, this transient into his home. Craig wondered what she would do it in his bed, and who she would do it with. He would throw out the linens, he reasoned, throw them out and get new ones when he returned.
The airport was almost empty and he walked directly onto the plane. It too was almost empty. He sat next to the window, set one of his bags on the seat next to him just in case. Nobody flies at nine in the morning. Not on a Tuesday. Not around here.
The girlfriend was waiting for him when he landed. They had arranged it in advance; she would be standing outside next to the statue. Nobody flies at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday, she had said, so it wouldn't be hard for them to find each other.
She didn't look like he expected. What he had expected was another matter entirely, but clearly this was not it. She looked nice, tan and fit in dark jeans, a little makeup on her small face, brown hair washed and pulled back. A few strands escaped, but still. She looked too good to be the girlfriend of of a man who had just died.
P.S If there is one person you can't stop thinking about post this sentence in your journal. ...this is taken from Rose 's Journal so spread children , spread...
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
nice story.
love the shoes.