As close to an honest story as I'm capable of. #flashfiction #shortstory https://t.co/wlp2YyEJw3 https://t.co/blT4yyxljz (1 day ago)

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May
14

maybe

Inner beauty is for old people. When you’re young you appreciate a cute face, perky tits, long legs and a great ass. I was young.

She was young.

Neither of us is as young now.

Her house was a small split level set on a quarter acre in the suburbs. The front door opened up to an opulent reception area and a grand ceremonial staircase. There were about a dozen state bedrooms, a grand ballroom, a covered marble courtyard, a large library, a dance studio and a formal garden.

Whenever she would belch she would quickly blow the belch away from her before anyone noticed. I would always notice.

She once won a hog calling contest.

We’re older now but we’re not older together. It’s hard because she was The One and I was just another guy. I guess it never seems fair to both parties involved in affairs of the heart. It’s actually surprising that they still allow the word “fair” to lurk in the middle of the word “affairs.”

Her car was an old two-door Volkswagen Beetle. It had under-floor luggage storage, TV monitors, an entertainment system, over six feet of headroom and could seat 49.

She would overdress for casual events and dress casually when formal dress was expected. She was quite comfortable being the center of attention because it was inevitable.

She could smell a drop a blood from a mile away.

Whenever I don’t have anything to write about, I write about her. I can never let anyone see these things I write because I make my living telling lies and pretending not to care. If these musings ever got out I’d be ruined.

For some reason I was never able to get out of her why she hated waitresses with a passion and she would often embarrass me with her cruel treatment of them.

I can still smell her if I try. Well, try might not be the right word. If I allow myself would be more accurate. She’s always just a deep inhale away. Her female parts were the only ones I’ve ever encountered that actually smell like the flowers you find scattered in a field somewhere in your imagination when you picture the perfect field. Maybe that’s how you know. They say the brain is nothing but a bunch of chemical interactions. Maybe the smell of flowers is the way you know.

If she was barefoot she could tell if it was going to rain.

She even had a small 39′ sailboat. It was nice; if it was a bit chilly you could sneak down through the small hatch and visit the kitchen, squash court, sauna, spa or wine cellar.

I just liked the way I felt when I saw her or was with her or thought about her.

All of the pertinent details are covered in Summum Bonum.

I’m also pretty sure she didn’t have prescriptions for most of those meds.

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