I went to an estate sale Wednesday, filled with fine china, crystal, bad art, and very costly tchotchkes. And bought only three small metal frames, of no special value, for a dollar apiece. Then Marianne and I went out to lunch at the Chestnut Grill, where I wrote two short-shorts to fill two of the frames.
The third frame I kept as was, because the repop photo within, of an elegant and brooding woman, inspired the following flash fiction:
Granted, we’re none of us getting any younger. Still. Look at me. Eyes, mouth, breasts, all pleasant to behold and in good working order. So why am I still in the bar at 1 a.m.? When I came here, I thought that if I were approached by someone nice enough, I’d give him my number, no more. An hour later, I threw in a kiss. By midnight, I was all the way up to a night of passion he’d never forget. Now? Buddy, I’ll make you suffer as no man has suffered before.
At last, I see you heading this way, ambition in your eyes.
“Hello,” I’ll say, “My name is Jeannie. You’d know what that meant if you’d read the Arabian Nights.”
-- Michael Swanwick, 2/27/13