The glass of red wine, the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray-- positive ID on any particular poetically inclined individual. A bit of a long shot from the Sartre-era clove cigarettes and vermouth, but still--
Distractions! Her nostrils flare with the anticipation of genuine arousal, genuine work, as her fingers glide across the keyboard without productive pressure. An inspirational glug of the Chianti follows, chasing whatever potential for creativity there is to be swallowed.
The window's open, of course, otherwise Mom would shit a brick at the cigarette smoke in the ashtray. Bad enough that Grandma did the whole Towering Inferno thing by falling asleep with a cigarillo gripped between a thoroughly disgusted pair of teeth on the 19th floor of a shitty apartment building. Moral of the story? Mom will get the nearest belt if she so much as gets a hint of the precious nicotine.
Shit, she thinks, flexing her fingers. So much to write, so little to say. Essays to write, CVs to embellish, and sweet little nothings to send to the over-sexed and over-spent boy-toys that litter the social scene. Boost some egos, make some connections, keep alive the chance that next weekend might be as fruitful as the last. A bunch of little dicks, leaping forward to the vague hint of wetter climates.
Right-- except for one.
She quivers a little at the hips, remembering how he cradled her with one hand beneath her head, and another on her breast, mounting her, riding her, bringing her to the crest. Oh, yes. The ones who genuinely gave a shit were always worth the top dollar beneath the sheets. The Chianti ratifies that statement, giving her a pink flush to compliment the general heat. Legs are rubbed together with a fervor of ostensible wholesomeness. Nipples taut, the rest with a distinct blush, she is still totally lost and without much to say. One nice night out of a hundred-- no, a great night. One to remember.
She clicks through, taking another drag on the cigarette, blowing the rest out the window- There was bigger, there was better, for sure, but there wasn't anything else quite like him.
She sits back, having discovered his email on a post-it that she's decorated with little hearts. Shit. What a blow to her cred. But worthwhile. Yes, he is.
She sits back, blowing imaginary smoke rings from the cigarette that's no longer there, thinking of something to say.