Today we did a prompt based on a photo. We were to pick one and answer a few questions and then write a 500 word scene. I wrote it, but it didn’t go so well for me. I had a hard time coming up with a story line, and then once I did, and wrote it, and edited it, it evolved into something I didn’t intend to write, at first.
As to of this sparked a longer story… nope. It was all I could do to get these words out. I don’t particularly have a connection with the person in the photo that I chose. It was difficult to determine, story wise, what he was doing and why. At first I wanted him to be a bit of a peeping Tom but as I started editing, the story started changing, and now he’s seen something disturbing.
Here is the photo:
And here is my submission:
I remember the day I met Christine. It was cold, the middle of an unbearable cold snap. She walked in with long, confident strides. Short skirt. Silk blouse. She wanted to be noticed, so I obliged.
She said she was interested in leasing a car. Luxury—a Benz or Merc or Audi. Something foreign. I said I was interested in her number. She laughed, tipping her head back a little, giving me a great show of straight white teeth and pink tongue. It wasn’t an oh please, you peon’ laugh, though. Her laugh was like the tinkle of a bell. A sweet sound. I was hooked.
I snagged her number from her lease application and even though we aren’t supposed to do that, I started calling her once a week. I was gently persistent. I’d ask her to meet me for a cup of coffee, some sushi, a drink. A walk. A drive. She always said no. Until she said yes.
One night, she said yes, she’d love a drink. She’d had a rough day and could use a break. I jumped at the chance, knowing I wasn’t going to get another one.
Weird thing was, Christine kept saying yes after that first drink. We kept meeting up for coffee or sushi or for drinks or for a walk. She told hilarious stories about working at the bank. The best thing we had in common was firsthand experience in how eccentric and stupid rich people could be.
“You want to roll your funds to this account? The one with all the fees and the fat commission for me, when this other account could give you the same thing? No problem,” she’d say, then laugh and buy us a round. “Courtesy of the fat fucks on Seventh Ave.”
After a few months, it was just understood that we’d get together a few nights a week. Always drinks. Sometimes dinner. Sometimes sex. Actually, a lot of times, sex. We always went to her place, because mine is a dump studio out in Long Island City. I got pretty comfortable in her high dollar Manhattan condo. I might have started dreaming about falling in love with her and living there and spending every night trading stories about the weird, bored, filthy rich.
And then one day…
It was a Friday night. Mid summer. I was expecting her to meet me at Geisha for drinks and Sushi, but it was an hour past our usual rendezvous time and Christine was a no show. Over an hour later, I left and headed to her place.
When I got there, I saw her car in the lot, and could see her living room lamp from the street, but she didn’t answer the buzzer. She didn’t answer the phone. So I did something a little eccentric and weird—I scaled the building, using the fire escapes. And when I got to her floor, I stepped onto her balcony and peered into her living room window.
What I saw… I wish I could unsee.