The young woman on the other side of the doorway was young and pretty. She had jet-black hair, brown eyes, full lips that curved into a warm, outgoing smile, and full, round breasts barely hidden beneath a low-cut top. They made their introductions and she stepped inside.
She took in her surroundings as he led her through the great room. Charlie imagined that she’d never been inside a house like this. She probably lived in a small apartment, maybe even a studio. When you sleep in the same room as your refrigerator, anything seems luxurious by comparison. He tried to consider the squalid space this young lady likely called home, but only for a moment because that’s all he could stand.
As they walked through the hall, she marveled at the art collection. Charlie made a mental note to let her see the garage before she left. He guessed she might be impressed by his first-generation Corvette convertibles in red, blue, and polo white, if not the 1929 Model A with the rumble seat. He chuckled to consider that the car probably preceded his guest by sixty years.
They came to the drawing room, and Charlie offered his guest a seat on a custom-tailored Dutch leather armchair. As she sat she demurely crossed her slender, stocking-clad legs, and he watched with great interest as her skirt rose up her hips. At the wet bar he made himself an Irish coffee, and poured her a glass of gin with a splash of tonic just as she had requested.
He sat across from her on a sofa he purchased at auction for twenty or fifty thousand dollars – he confessed with some embarrassment that he couldn’t remember the amount – and which had once belonged to Andrew Carnegie. She sipped her drink, then said, “So you aren’t going to touch me?”
Charlie shook his head. “No, dear. I’m not allowed. I can watch, but I can’t touch.” His wife, ever a dilettante, had decided to spend the entirety of her fifties engaged in pursuits that didn’t include him. She’d explored an interest in tennis, golf, shuffleboard, painting, sculpting, horseback riding, synchronized swimming, and others too numerous to name. She never spent more than six months on any one activity, and in fact usually spent far less. She had recently mastered the zampoña, her interest piqued during her girls’ trip to Bolivia, and quickly moved on to ballroom dance. At the moment she was enjoying a lesson with a handsome young instructor she met through the country club. Although Margo’s lack of interest in their marriage certainly hurt him, Charlie couldn’t begrudge her this particular indulgence; not every woman had their own ballroom in which to dance, and there was no sense letting it go to waste.
She finished her drink and stood up. “Shall we get started?” Without waiting for a reply she doffed her top, revealing a black bra that followed it to the floor. When she dropped her skirt, Charlie was pleased to find her completely bare underneath. Leaving on her stockings and heels, she lay down on the floor, coming to rest supine.
Charlie watched her separate her soft pink petals with her fingers. If this was the only compromise his wife could offer, he could live with it. (548/549)
Behind the Scenes
The most remarkable aspect of
this week’s Flash Fiction Friday challenge is an enormous word limit of 549. While this is much greater than the typical
Flash Fiction Friday word limit, it is apparently not unusual for flash fiction to be as long as a thousand words. Who knew? I found the high limit somewhat freeing, as I was able to tell a longer and much more detailed story than I otherwise might. However, as with a smaller word limit the max creeped up on me, and before I knew it I was at 500 words. This may account for the somewhat abrupt ending.
I found this week’s guidelines somewhat challenging. When I first viewed the prompt photo on Tuesday or Wednesday nothing came to mind. When I revisited it shortly before I began writing on Thursday, I saw an elaborate backstory involving a marriage of convenience, or perhaps a couple for whom the spark is gone. The wife has experienced some manner of mid-life crisis and lost interest in her husband. Perhaps she was never interested in him in the first place. It’s possible that she was only after his money, though admittedly this angle didn’t occur to me while I was writing. Additionally I deliberately left Margo’s marital fidelity ambiguous; Charlie notes that her dance instructor is young and handsome, though there is no real reason to infer that she is having an affair.
The required phrase, “…ever a dilettante…” initially provided just as challenging. I rarely use the term, which describes a person who takes up an art, activity, or subject for amusement or in a superficial fashion. I sometimes get “dilettante” and “debutante” mixed up, and that didn’t help. It didn’t take long to decide that Margo was the dilettante in question, though I had problems placing the phrase and briefly considered using a cheat, i.e. changing “ever a dilettante” to “…forever a dilettante…”, “…whenever a dilettante…”, or “…whatever a dilettante…”
Despite the word limit, there is very little detail on who Charlie is, exactly. We know that he’s obscenely wealthy – his house has its own ballroom – but we have no idea whether he made his fortune or inherited it. I decided that Charlie’s sofa once belonged to Andrew Carnegie because I considered that perhaps Charlie is a captain of industry and a philanthropist; Carnegie was both of these, and perhaps our protagonist has modeled his life after Carnegie’s. Clearly he is content to obey his wife’s boundaries, refusing to touch the young girl who comes over to put on an erotic show.
Speaking of the young girl, she is also fairly one-dimensional. We don’t know if she is a sex worker, or if there is some other quid pro quo that has brought her to Charlie’s palatial mansion for the purposes of exhibitionism. I deliberately left her nameless in order to show that Charlie does not consider her a potential life partner or even a sex partner. She is just there to fulfill a need of his and be on her way.
Deleted Scenes
I planned to mention that the young girl had responded to an ad placed by Charlie on a website such as Craigslist. In the end I forgot and by then it was too late as I was one word short of the limit. Ultimately I don’t think it matters; whether Charlie found her online or met her at a social function has little bearing if any on the story. I also wanted to mention the piano visible in the background of the prompt photo. Charlie would have noticed the girl eyeing it and asked whether she could play. (“Do you play, dear?”)
Soundtrack
Pink Floyd’s 1973 hit Money might be a good choice while they walk through the house on the way to the drawing room. If that’s perhaps too literal consider Pachelbel’s Canon in D, which I imagine Charlie might have playing throughout the house for ambience. In the drawing room, however, I could see relaxing classical music giving way to something more bluesy and masculine, such as John Lee Hooker’s One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer; George Thoroughgood’s I Drink Alone, or I Can’t Stand It by Eric Clapton.
