One Night in Short, Dirty Pieces #02

"So...?" She forced herself to hop down. It took her a moment to locate her various discarded garments and to brush the dust of the stockroom off them.

"Aha!" He tore open the packet of napkins he had located and wrapped the full condom in a couple. "I'm not enough of an asshole to leave this in the corner for someone to find."

"Oh, I'm sure you are. Hey, can I have a few of those?"

"Oh really? Messy girl?"

"Well - I mean, getting a little cum on the bar's skirt is one thing, but I think I... you made me soak the damn thing."

- - -

Back out in the bar, the skirt wiped and blotted, but still damp on the back of her thighs, wet with her own juices. Past their clocking off time now, and with what looked like the worst of the storm over, and conversation struck to a post-coital low. The barman reappeared two minutes after they did, no-one seemed any the wiser. It would have been a Christmas miracle, but that was last month.

"Well, that was a lot more fun than giving shitty pieces of paper to people who don't want them."

"I'll say." He watched her zip her furry hoodie back up over the amazing tits that she had wiped his seed onto. "Hey, I... I'm not an asshole all the time."

"I'm sure you're not," she said, a puzzled frown on her face as she stuffed the stupid puppy ears into her bag and straightened out her gloves.

"I mean - you should meet me again."

"I should?" She smiled. He was back to not looking at her, not making eye contact, looking at the front window, too cool for school. But he couldn't keep it up, he kept glancing at her to gauge her reaction.

"You don't think? Well..."

"Such an asshole," she shook her head, "Of course I want to meet you again, jerk." Only half a smile, but he couldn't keep the warmth out of it.

They wrote their numbers on the back of their respective flyers with a ballpoint that they borrowed from the tattooed barman. Outside it was vindictively cold, and the wind assaulted them as if sore over the vanishing act they'd pulled earlier.

They didn't kiss when they said goodbye, and it turned out that they were heading in opposite directions from the moment they stepped out of the door. But in the tight-lipped, smart-assed smiles they both sent the other's way was the kind of genuine affection that burns cynicism to dust.

She turned the corner, heading for the station, her skirt sticking to the back of her legs, and she smiled.