Thursday, October 15, 2015

She was the kind of woman who fell into songs as she drove and yipped when her cigarette burned her fingers but didn't drop the ember onto her thrift store Gucci dress.

Her name was Emilia Stone and she was tall and lithe and had a mother's stretch marks, but no child that she spoke of. She was driving a boy, a young man, a gent in training back to her place for an evening of, as she put it, "Just chilling."

The name of the gent in training was Brutus Theodore Thrush. People called him Brutus, even if he asked them to call him Theo. Brutus was also tall and lithe, he did not smoke, but he did enjoy the smell of Emilia's hand rolled, personally mixed, quasi legal cigarettes.

Their eyes were always large when they looked at each other, but they avoided that, generally speaking. Instead pointing out trees, birds, odd branches, crushed snail shells on the sidewalk or shattered glass.

"So. It's not like I'm a slut or anything, but, well,