Manhattan Offender

Opening lines: Six degrees of penetration

Number four in a series of beginnings of short stories/novels that may never actually be written:

Scene:  A warm fall day in the city, leaves nicely colored on a tree-lined street.  Two men are walking, active in conversation

1:  "So, essentially, you've slept with everyone you know."
2:  "That's not true."
1:  "Then what percentage of your friends have you slept with?"
2:  "That's not a fair question.  In theory, I never ever sleep with my friends."
1:  "But you've introduced me to  a lot of them and you've admitted to sleeping with more than half of them."
2:  "We weren't friends when the sex happened though."
1:  "So you meet someone, sleep with them and then become friends, at which point you don't sleep with them again."
2:  "Pretty much."
1:  "Because you don't sleep with your friends."
2:  "Right.  Or friends of friends."
1:  "Wait.  Friends of friends?  That's a new one."
2:  "Well, sometimes someone is friends with someone, but, you know, they want to be more than just friends.  And since they don't always tell you that, it's best to avoid sleeping with the friends of friends just to prevent drama, right?"
1:  "Uh.  Maybe.  Keep explaining."

Opening lines: Two rich or two thin

Number three in a series of beginnings of short stories/novels that may never actually be written:

Pastel greens, oranges, and yellows of the fruit salad offend me.  Surely this is the easiest item in the store to consume, but it doesn't appeal to me.  I really need something to appeal to me.  It's definitely Sunday evening and that means my last meal was about 36 hours ago. 

If I don't eat then my body will start storing fat, if it hasn't started already.  Duke's mantra is ringing in my head:  "There's nothing sadder than a fat junkie."  Force myself to eat and then take an Ambien and then get to the gym tomorrow by seven.  My life is killing me.

But my focus needs to be on the produce aisle right now.  Neurons are crying out for more chemicals.  Cocaine, cigarettes, Cheet-ohs.  That's the bad thing about coming down.  The choices suddenly aren't clear and easy choices are most appealing.  The fruit salad is not appealing, but this hot man with a cart full of food suddenly walking toward me and staring me down is appealing.

My self-imposed rule about boys in the neighborhood is to avoid them at all cost based on my history of meeting manics on ManHunt.  There are exceptions to every rule and these hazel eyes are rule-breakers.  They stare me down as he approaches and then suddenly turn to red seedless grapes.  He makes a selection and then turns to the next aisle, looking back at the last possible moment.

Now my time at Grocery-opolis is extended.  I'm lifting cans, reading labels, poking loaves of bread, and mostly timing myself to see this guy every third aisle.

Then it occurs to me.  Is he looking at me in interest or is it because I'm wearing sunglasses past sundown while staring at the staggering varieties of LaYogurt?

Opening lines: The Hand Jobs

Number two in a series of beginnings of short stories/novels that may never actually be written.:

Having had initial success with her line of hand care products, Monique thought it was time to expand distribution of the creams, gels, gloves, press-on nails, manicure sets, and spa-gloves beyond the initial deal she had signed with QVC.  Monique saw her line comfortably presented inside the glass cases in the basement of Bergdorf Goodman, next to imported lines of cosmetics.  Bloomingdales or Saks just seemed to not be exclusive enough and she honestly wasn’t sure of how to handle the financials of expanding production to that degree.

So it wasn’t just a bit of trepidation that she found herself sitting across a conference room table from Angela Masberg and her team from the cosmetics buying office of Macy’s.  Masberg had the look of one of those women that starts in retail just out of college and stays with it just out of spite. Her tight lips looked as if a million harsh words had passed through them.  The huge rock on her hand screamed of frigidity. Her eyes had the dull tenacity of a workmule, and with every glance the women shared, Monique was sure that somehow Masberg was imparting cancerous cells over to her.

Opening lines: Birthday Boy

A new series of beginnings of short stories/novels that may never actually be written.

Number one of one.

My eyes open to see a pair of twinkly eyes staring back.  A quick examination of the accompanying face acknowledged vague memories of the previous night.  The lips on the eyes are moving, but I am more preoccupied with finding my clock to take the morning measurements. 

Six was the last time noted the night/morning previously.  Eleven now.  Five hours of sleep.  Remember to nap before dinner. 

The lips move again.  My time demon lulled, I struggle to listen.

" ... birthday."
"Mm?  Um.  How old is she?"
"She who?"
"Madonna?"
"What?"
"You said it's Madonna's birthday."
"No.  It's my birthday."
"Oh.  Um, did I know that last night?"
"No.  We didn't really talk that much."
"True.  So, um, happy birthday."

I'm doing everything I can to quell a panic attack, but birthday boy doesn't know this.  A survey of the situation confirms my concerns.  A little heavy set (like), possibly latin (like), hairless (don't hate), stretch marks from a chubby phase as opposed to stretch marks from working out (concerned), cleanly shaved head (ambivalent), and those twinkling eyes. 

The eyes scare me with their glimmer of affection.  Combined with the warm nostalgia that might come from a birthday hook-up, all the danger signs are present.  My decision is made.  Birthday Boy has to go.