Shady Blue

Hearing shoes scuff the Moroccan tile, Blue spun on her heels. Face set into an apprehensive frown, arms crossing over her chest and shoulders raised as though to add some height, she met the man’s gaze with a banishing statement readied. Yet slackened almost instantly. “I thought you were Richard,” Vincent decided her voice was far softer than he’d imagined. “Wishful thinking?” Slowly, he advanced, both hands hidden in his pockets, hair tousled by the breeze, and stood by the girl’s side with his shoulder delicately brushing hers. Wondering if her skin crawled at the touch as his, begging for closeness. A European accent thickened his words, lips speaking in such a way she imagined them in rather compromising places. Though she made good work of hiding it. “Not exactly the word I’d use,” “Happy birthday, by the way,” Vincent turned to face the girl after a moment of truncated silence, her eyes flickering to his own, smile warm in a way that softened his comp

“Morning, Anya,” Blue hardly paused as she jumped from the last stair and came face-to-face with her mother and the maid. Marian sat proudly at the end of the table, a plate of fruit half-massacred in front of her, breast implants bursting from the front of her electric blue cocktail dress. Anya hovered nervously. The dining table had been pushed back to the center of the room. The decorative furniture moved back to the basement. No remnants remained from the previous night—aside from the dull throb of her groin and the fingerprint bruising to her thighs she had no choice but to wear jeans to hide. Summer thus far had been kind. The days were bright but cold. She spent the mornings in bed relishing the fact she’d never again go to school if she so desired. She’d thrown out the pleated skirt uniform the day she’d graduated, deciding never again to appeal so unwillingly to the male gaze. Loved the fact she could wear whatever she wanted. Clad in a half see-through brow

  Following as carefully as he could, trying rather earnestly to mask his footsteps and holding his breath for whatever reason, Vincent rounded the corner and pressed into Bradley’s study. Blue had stood silently, staring through the window as though she wished she’d disappear completely, only moving to meet the man as he silently closed the door behind himself—and rearing at him instantly.   “My god! can’t you leave me alone?” Her approach was quick, and while the man had at least five or six inches on her, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin as though she hadn’t a fear in the world. As she did, Vincent couldn’t help but feel he was being attacked by a toy poodle suffering small dog syndrome. And smiled. “Is this all a joke to you?”   “Your father invited me, Blue, do you expect me to turn down all invitations that may involve you just because you told me we can’t see each other again?”  

Climbing from her open window, Blue suddenly felt she was sixteen again. She hadn’t a care who could happen past her window and stare up her skirt as she sliced her finger on a rather jagged vine—had already forgotten the Wikihow article on climbing from a second-story window she’s studied like the bible. It had only been a mere day ago she’d hung from her balcony half-naked. A mere twelve hours since she’d been dry humped in her father’s study. It was safe to say she hadn’t the self-respect to care, not after the night before. Darting down her own driveway as though fleeing from a crime scene, the thought hadn’t occurred to Blue that they hadn’t so much as organized a meeting place. Suddenly, she found herself feeling quite anxious. In all her sexual frustration, she hadn’t the mind to ask for even crucial information. Was he picking her up? Was she meant to call a car? Were they meeting at the restaurant? Where were they eating? And as she pulled

Blue thought it impossible to be any happier after her lewd few minutes in the car with Vincent. Never had she been more wrong.   He’d chosen Italian. The restaurant was small, quiet. She’d worried they were keeping them open when they’d requested their table at a quarter-to eleven, though the staff would never show it. The brickwork was left bare, furniture obviously antiqued. The waiters wore no uniforms. They’d shared a table that seemed almost a little too small for two, knees brushing, glasses often confused. And though their clothes were crumpled, and she wore his blazer, constant reminders of their moment in the car, Blue blushed deeply each time they touched. Shrunk away as his legs leaned to hers. Tucked her hands in her lap when their fingers brushed.   Perhaps it was the fact that the lack of lighting deepened the green of Vincent's eyes in a way that forced her gaze from his when ten seconds became far too much.