As I approached the entrance of the club, I could see her, standing there, flirting with the over-sized doorman. Her red dress was stunning; it hugged every curve of her body oh so gently, yet firmly. Lucky dress! And the shoes…yep, they were on point as well. Damn I messed that relationship up, I thought, the closer I got to her and saw the devastatingly spectacular shape of her body. Each step painfully reminded me that I should have kept in better touch with her as she traveled around the country for her job.
She saw the fairly medium sized group, of which I was apart, approach, and she turned up the ever-present Southern charm. She was not only the birthday girl, but she was also the hostess for the night, welcoming party-goers to the product placement event. She smiled, and then our eyes met. Surprisingly, as she ushered the few people ahead of me inside, she maintained a steady dose of eye contact. When I made it to the front of the line, she gave me a hug, whispering in my ear, “What’s her name?”
“Excuse me,” I quizzically asked as our bodies disengaged, my hands clinging to her shapely hips, hating me for not experiencing this sensation on a consistent basis.
“You heard me,” she begins, “What’s her name? What’s the name of the girl that made you stop talking to me?” Her sexiness amplified with her
“Oh, her?” I quip.