It was March cold, but the whiskey in her veins kept her warm enough beneath the crisp white moon suspended in the black. Breath puffed out of her running mouth, steam train grey–choo, choo! He wasn’t listening, but watching the story unfold, memorizing her every gesture. Sweet girl with the pale face, eloquently profane, she was the one he dreamed of in the nights, lonely.
The bar tale concluded with hoarse laughter; too much drink and brisk air. He should have invited her in an hour ago, but she looked so pretty standing on the veranda, moving between shadow and light.
“Do you want to wear my hat?” She handed over the fedora, then shook out her hair; flaxen waves spilled over her shoulders, the scent of citrus mingling with her sleepy sandalwood perfume.
All he wanted was to take her pea coat by the collar, and pull her into him for a kiss. Pull her into his body, and keep her there.