"Do you have a club card?"
Suddenly I was snapped out of my trance.
"Huh? Oh, umm yeah."
I fumbled around in my wallet trying to find the card as she smiled at me. I could tell she was amused. I, on the other hand, was embarrassed beyond belief. How long had I been staring at her?
"Here you go," I said passing the card to her.
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The afternoon air was warm, but not unusually so for that time of year. It had been ten minutes since the local highschool had been dismissed for the weekend. Two eighteen year old students were making their way through quiet neighborhoods nearby.
Ethan found it extremely difficult to walk properly, even on the smooth, level footpath. A mixture of nervousness and excitement was causing him to over-think every step.
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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.
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For Valentine's Day, I had planned something really special for Vinnie. It was something I'd always wanted to try, and I knew he'd like it, too. I told him to come to my place after work, and I'd have dinner ready for him. It was a bit of a fib. Yes, I was going to make him a nice steak dinner, but not until after I had my nasty way with him.
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"What exactly is the problem?" Laura almost screamed. "I have the money and you have a service that I am willing to pay for. How can there be a problem? I'll pay double."
The look on Martin's face infuriated Laura. It wasn't arrogance, but it was his insufferable confidence and that she seemed so predictable. The infuriation was aggravated by his ability to make her feel her behaviour and reaction were always wrong.
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I'd been looking forward to a quiet day in the office, with no meetings and a chance to catch up with the pile of papers that had been gathering dust on my desk over the previous few weeks. The first few weeks of the year are always busy, and this year was no exception. I had spent the last few weeks rushing from one meeting to another, travelling all over the place, barely having time to catch my breath. But now, at last, I had a chance to catch up.
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My daughter Faith had a brooding look on her usually sunny face. When she returned home from college for winter break, her mood alternated from surly to morose. My efforts to engage her in conversation failed and I tried every approach I knew as a professional therapist but she refused to open up.
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I had been doing back to back sessions lately, playing pedal steel and six string for a lot of artists. I worked on an album for this new singer named Bobby Riggs, who was being touted by some of the music people in Nashville as a possible next big sensation in the C & W biz.
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Dracul finds the kid high up on the fire ladder, outside the familiar window. On the regular spot where the boy can be found almost every night, gazing longingly in through the glass with tired eyes, hidden by the darkness when the lights are on on the inside. He sits there, silently observing the motions of the everyday life.
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The minute he stepped into the room a slow and aching fear began to spread across his back and settle into his shoulders. In one quick glance he could tell his entrance was a mistake, but it was far too late to turn back. The room was a perfect cube, four rust stained walls, a window covered with a thick layer of dark brown filth, one solitary light bulb hanging from a mass of wires in the center, dangling forebodingly over a plain musty mattress.
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