May 18th: Write a piece with the first word of each stanza beginning with a letter of the alphabet. 26 Lines.
Absorbed. Filled. Soaked in the smell of my morning coffee.
Body aching from the night shared with the awkward and equally
charismatic gentleman who made his way over to me only to
deliberately fumble. Stumble. Bumble. All to make me laugh.
Executed with perfection on his part. My reaction not quite what the
flirt wanted. My humour has a darkness to it that most find
ghoulish. Ghastly. Ungainly. Grizzly, even.
He gestured for me to join him for a dance. I don’t dance.
Imprudent of him, I thought. He appeared to read my mind and
joined me, sitting on the bar stool beside me, and smiled in a most
knavish manner. One I recognised and reciprocated with equal ill intention.
Lapping up every word I spoke, or at least pretending to; his
motives clear, I came up with as much nonsense as I could. This
near legless man was relentless, and even in his drunken state his
objectives remained the same. Get her home. Get horizontal.
Poor sod. My plan was never the same as his. He still thinks he saw me first.
Questionable I know, but I spotted his wallet long before he spotted me.
Rohypnol is a thief’s best friend. Especially as a means to an end.
Sex is not why I ache. Carrying the dead weight of the limp and
taped body to the trunk of his own car is why this coffee is so good.
Unceremonious to say the least, but in my defense, he was
vanilla in disposition, and what is a girl supposed to do when a man
waves his wallet around with such arrogance? Settle for a b-rated
x-rated romp with an intoxicated and spectacularly boring individual?
Yours truly has a little more smarts than that. Call me what you like.
Zealous? Criminal? All appropriate. But this bitch has a new coffee machine.