Long Red Dress and a Gleeful White Dog

 

 

There are — moments.

Moments that pass by unnoticed.

Like the photo of you and your classmates at camp with the out of focus boy in the background.

Like the moments after your first child is born.

Or the day when your life began to unravel — you were happy if not contented, and the world was beautiful — except it wasn’t, and the whole unhappy mess can be traced back to that day.

I didn’t want my portrait painted, but I knew it was the done thing.

Our family is all about done things.

Dominic, the artist, was told to paint me in the style of an American President’s wife, so he chose the portrait of President Coolidge’s wife.

I didn’t mind, I have a long red dress and a white dog.

The process of posing was tedious, and the conversations about what I should wear were something beyond tedious.

I wore a simple pearl necklace, but it disappeared from the final work, as did my bracelet. 

It was never explained.

Our dog wouldn’t sit still, and I don’t blame her. Instead, she sat nearby and watched and sniffed all the unfamiliar scents.

The background was copied from the President’s wife’s portrait. Consequently, we didn’t need to leave Dominic’s studio.

 

The studio was just as you would imagine — dusty, paint-smeared with finished and unfinished works stacked against the walls.

Someone had written Genitalia is not an Italian airline, on one wall in tiny script. During a break, I asked him about it.

“Gerald, one of my friends — he thinks he’s funny. He writes something every time he comes to visit. Usually, I scrub it off when he’s gone, but I like that one. It’s hard to be explicit without using the word fuck.”

“Doesn’t he get his feelings hurt when he visits again?” I asked.

“No, he’s not my favourite aunt who expects to see the present she sent me ten Christmas’s ago on display when she visits.”

That made me smile.

 

I was sitting on a box, eating my sandwich.

“You have good legs,” he said.

 I kicked out my right leg and looked at it.

“Thank you,” I said. 

I could see he’d looked up my dress and when he looked at me, he blushed.

“See anything you like?” I said.

“Yes,” he said after a pause. I blushed.

“Your studio is very hot,” I said, and Dominic ignored me, “very hot.”

I waved my hand in front of my face, but the gesture didn’t help my case.

So, after our first session, I stopped wearing a bra and panties just to keep me cool. It worked, but I should have remembered when I raised my well-shaped leg. 

It was only a moment. 

He couldn’t have seen much, but I did feel a bit like Sharon Stone.

“Basic Instinct,” I said softly. 

I was trying to remember Sharon Stone’s name, and I usually have to work backwards from the name of the movie to jog my brain. It amazes me that I can always remember the movie’s name and not the name of the actor.

“Pardon?” he said.

“Nothing. Just trying to remember a name.”

“Sharon Stone,” he said. 

I didn’t answer. 

I was embarrassed.

If I’d wanted to seduce him, this line of patter would have done the trick — it doesn’t take much to get a man aroused. In truth — I wasn’t trying to inflame him.

I had wondered if the stories about artists were true. What would it be like to lie in this creative man’s arms?

He was tall — about the same height as my husband. 

Unruly hair unsuccessfully brushed back. 

Good muscle definition and a bump in his jeans where there should be a bump — he dressed to the right, as far as I could tell.

Our conversation was having an effect on him — I noticed that he crossed his legs and turned slightly away from me so I couldn’t see if he was aroused — which meant he probably was.

 

The portrait required two weeks of sittings. 

Every afternoon from two until four.

On the final day, he put his brush down, stepped back and said, “It’s done. Would you like to have a look?”

Up to that moment, he had jealously guarded the canvas, “No peeking until it’s done!”

My dog raised her head and sat up — as though she knew something special was happening.

I stepped forward and stood beside him. 

He put his arm around me.

“Do I really look that good?” I said.

“Yes,” he said as he slid down the zipper on my dress.

We made love on a pile of paint-stained canvas covers. I could feel his hands on me, his lips on mine. The rough canvas sheets rubbed against my skin and the smells of his studio filled my nostrils, creating an indelible memory.

The makeshift bed wasn’t at all comfortable — not at all what I was used to, but as I lay there, exhausted, I thought about all the artist’s models who had been loved in this way, in all the studios of Paris. 

Did they feel the way I felt?

I never wanted to be anywhere else but right here right now.

I put my hand on him, and he groaned softly.

“Are you trying to kill me woman?” he said, but I caressed him, and his protestation was belied by his ever-increasing interest.

“One more time,” I said as I straddled him. With a little help from me, we resumed erotic hostilities.

It was dark when I woke. 

My lover was making coffee wearing only a white t-shirt, which didn’t cover his buttocks — I enjoyed the view.

“Why didn’t you undress me earlier?” I said.

“I wanted to finish the portrait first.”

“Typical man. The work always comes first,” I said.

I rolled over so he could see my naked body while he prepared two cups. The steam rising from the boiling water looked like a genie coming out of its bottle.

I felt like that genie. 

I too, had been released.

“Cover yourself, woman, there are dogs present,” he said with a smile.

I opened my legs just enough.

“That’ll be enough of that,” he said, “I may never walk again.”

He put the coffees on a small stool, and we sat on the canvas covers. Our combined scent now mixed with the aroma of paint and turps.

“Cake mix,” I said.

“In what regard?” he said.

“That’s what we smell like — afterwards. Cake mix.”

 “I guess. It smells like sex to me.”

We sipped our coffee in the silence only lovers can conjure.

“Do you think your husband will like the portrait?” he said.

“Yes — do you think he will know I wasn’t wearing knickers?”

“Hard to tell. Does his mind work like that?”

“You know, I’m not sure how his mind works, but there is something incredibly sexy about him having to pay you to penetrate me.”

“Not sure he would see it that way, but I do get your meaning. You aren’t the kind of woman who would tell him just for the fun of seeing his reaction — are you?”

“No. That’s not me. I don’t dislike him. He’s a good man. I wouldn’t want to hurt him.”

And that was the moment.

I hadn’t planned any of it and no one was supposed to get hurt.

They did — get hurt.

But that was still to come.

When I got home, I had to make up an excuse for being late, and I was disappointed that he wasn’t very interested. Part of me wanted to tell him what I had been doing — to wake him up!

I showered and dressed for bed.

I didn’t realise that oil paint does not wash off with water.

“Your back is all red and you’ve got paint stuck to your skin. Did you rub up against something in the studio?” said my husband as I climbed into bed.

“Yes, I guess I did,” I said.

And that was another moment.

 

As we boarded the flight to Rome, I laughed out loud.

“What are you laughing at,” said my artist companion.

“Alitalia IS an Italian airline,” I said.

Wisp Of Smoke

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A wisp of smoke emanated from the barrel of the gun as I placed it gently on the desk. There had been enough violence in the last few moments, so laying it softly down seemed like a dampening gesture.

I’m not a lover of guns, but like all things made by man, they have their uses.

He stood staring at me for as long as it would take to light a cigarette, then he crumpled into a man-shaped heap.

I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to be shot. Most gunshot victims are surprised. The way he lived his life, he shouldn’t have been surprised. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone tired of his lies and deceit.

That’s what I am, tired.

Not tired in the traditional sense, more fed up than anything.

People disappoint me — continually.

From the young man behind the counter in the only coffee shop on my block (yes, I could walk a little further and get better service, but what’s the point of that?) to the half-wit who got promoted over me just because he’s a man (no that’s not fair, it had more to do with who was sleeping with whom and who owed who because of large scale indiscretions — see what I mean, tiresome?)

I’m guessing you are wondering why I shot him? Well, you can wait a little longer, it’s my story after all.

I wasn’t the only person in the room, and I got there in a roundabout way.

It was a pleasant enough party. Well dressed women and tidy men ignoring their wives.

This was my first visit to this mansion. A man who sold used cars built it many years ago, and when he died, it went through a few hands (all owners trying vainly to impress) until it landed in Michael’s grubby hands. Michael’s wife’s hands were pristine and well-manicured — she’d stabbed a few people in the back, but her hands were unbloodied. Her crimes were metaphorical.

There was nothing metaphorical about Michael.

We, my husband and I, had been summoned to hear Michael’s terms. He believed that he owned us. My husband was close to the end of his wits, but I don’t buckle so easily.

I only know the part that concerned my husband and me — our disgrace, our downfall. Never let the devil know your secrets for he will drag you down to Hell.

I heard the shouting, and when I opened the sturdy oak door to Michael’s study, I saw that two men I vaguely recognised, were arguing with Michael as my husband stood meekly by.

Michael stepped behind his dark-stained desk and drew an automatic pistol from the top drawer. The man in the blue suit reached inside his jacket and pulled a huge pistol. The man in the brown suit reached behind him and drew a revolver.

My husband was unarmed.

I held my breath as the shouting died down. Michael realised he was outgunned and attempted to defuse the situation.

“Okay fellas. Let’s all of us calm the fuck down. I’m putting my gun down, and we can talk,” said Michael. He put his gun on the edge of the desk and put his hands out in a mock gesture of surrender. He took a few steps away from the desk as the two men lowered their weapons.

I didn’t plan what happened next, but I have to say that it could not have worked out better.

I’m a smart girl, and I can recognise an opportunity when I see one.

Michael saw me enter the room, but he held his ground. The other two men momentarily raised their guns again, probably thinking that I was Michael’s secret weapon.

My dress was red and was not concealing anything. The two men realised I did not have a weapon and lowered their guns once more.

Michael went back to placating his adversaries who were none too pleased about being summoned and threatened.

My head was spinning with possibilities.

I took three quick sets across the room and picked up Michael’s gun. The safety was off. Without hesitation, I shot the man in the blue suit. He fell to the floor, and everyone in the room looked at him as though he might get up and laugh that it had all been a game.

My ears were ringing from the blast, and my wrist hurt.

My husband looked at me with confused eyes.

The brown suit came out of his stupor and looked at me just as I shot him in the chest. Now my wrist was beginning to ache.

“Julia. What have you done?” said, my horrified husband.

“Haven’t finished yet darling,” I said as I waited for Michael to turn and face me. No good shooting him in the back — too much to explain.

Michael started to say something, but he didn’t get to finish.

The blue suit’s gun had fallen at my feet. I picked it up and shot Michael who looked very surprised.

“Everybody shot everybody else John, and our problems are over. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” I said, and John nodded. I guess words were too much effort at that point.

Just before the guests burst through the study door with looks of horror on their well-dressed faces, a wisp of smoke emanated from the barrel of the gun as I placed it gently on the desk. There had been enough violence in the last few moments, so laying it down softly seemed like a dampening gesture.

I’m not a lover of guns, but like all things made by man, they have their uses.

White Gloves.

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I saw her reflection in the window of the Tobacconist.

She was crossing the street and heading for the restaurant at The Windsor Hotel.

You might be wondering how I knew where she was going.

Wonder no more.

Where else would a beautiful young lady be going, at that hour of the day, dressed so impeccably?

Her lipstick matched the colour of her dress.

Her handbag was suitably casual, and her figure was close to perfect. She had the kind of body that made you wish you could win a scholarship to undertake further study.

She was smoothing down a stray hair as she stepped off the kerb and as if by magic, the busy lunchtime traffic came to a halt.

If I’d tried it you would have read about the carnage in the evening paper, but this is 1957 after all, and a beautiful woman will always stop traffic in this modern age.

I’ve got a thing about white gloves.

My mum had a drawer full of gloves, and they always smelled amazing. She looked great when she wore them.

When things got to be too much, she would dress up and keep me home from school.

We’d walk down to the tram stop and jump on the first number 12 that came along. The journey to the city took about half an hour, and we would travel that distance without conversation.

I would sit next to her and feel her warmth and smell her perfume. Sometimes she would hold my hand.

White gloves.

When she could not be here anymore, they found her, perfectly dressed, careful makeup and white gloves.

I was outside the Windsor on a routine ‘follow and report’.

Not my usual pastime, but a friend was shorthanded, and I didn’t have much on. Melbourne is quiet now that the Olympics is over. Most of the juicy crime has moved back to Sydney.

The lady in red was still delaying traffic when I saw my mark enter the Hotel. The bookstore next to the Tobacconists would be a good place to wait; no one notices a person in a bookstore and the staff know to leave the customers alone.

Fortunately, the ‘classics’ section was close to the front window, so I picked out a Tolstoy and settled in for a long wait.

The curtains in the dining room at the Windsor were draped but not completely closed, so I could see my mark sitting one table in and to the left of the main window.

I was expecting to be waiting for at least an hour but my curiosity, professional and otherwise, wanted to know who else would be seated at his table.

A well placed ten-pound note would get me all the information I needed from the staff, but that would come later, for now, I just wanted to see for myself.

I didn’t have long to wait before a large, not very tall, bald man in a bad suit sat opposite my mark. Their demeanour suggested that they knew each other, but I doubt that they spent their holidays together.

Four minutes later, the bald bloke got up and left; there was no handshake, but he didn’t tip a glass of beer over him either.

Next to the man’s description I wrote, ‘strange, short meeting’.

To my delight, the lady in red, fresh from her traffic stopping duties, appeared in the window and stood approximately where the bald, bad suit had sat.

My mark grew about two inches in his chair and to put it mildly; he looked a little bit surprised.

There was too much traffic, too much distance and too much glass for me to be able to hear their conversation.

But, as the man said, ‘actions speak louder than words’.

The lady in red opened her casual handbag and reached into it with her perfectly gloved hand and pulled out what looked a lot like a chrome-plated .25 calibre Browning automatic.

I didn’t hear the bangs; a .25 doesn’t make a lot of noise and the slugs it projects is not likely to do a lot of damage unless they land in the right spot, and at that range ‘white gloves’ was not going to miss.

My mark made a face that made it look like a large dog had attached itself to his family jewels, then he slid gracefully off his chair.

Miss ‘white gloves’ must have hit the spot.

I expected to see a flurry of red and white but to my surprise, she slowly put the gun back into her casual purse and moved toward the door. I didn’t expect to see her emerge because there was a good chance someone would grab her now that her gun was back in her bag, but I was wrong again.

She stepped through the polished brass front doors, said something to the doorman, who smiled at her, then she stopped traffic again and walk toward my hiding place.

I expected to see a posse of concerned citizens come bursting through those shiny doors, but again I was off the mark.

“This is as good a place as any in the short term, but before too much more time goes by you might want to put a bit of distance between that dead bloke and yourself.”

“Yes, I guess that would be wise,” she said, looking slightly dazed.

“Would you like me to hail you a taxi?”

“Not just yet, I need to catch my breath.”

“Yeah, me too.” I wasn’t talking about catching my breath because of the shooting, I’d seen a lot of that, in and out of uniform. Waiting out a sniper was easy compared to dealing with a beautiful woman. A gunman only had one way of killing you; a beautiful woman could choose from dozens, and do it with a smile.

I hadn’t yet decided if ‘white gloves’ was one of these or not.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you do it?” My Tolstoy was light weight compared to what was unfolding in front of me so I put it down.

“It’s a long, boring story involving letters, photographs, husbands and broken vows. But, I want you to know that I came here to pay him.”

“Creeps like that never leave you be. He’d have bled you dry and then told your husband just so his next victim knew he meant business.”

“We had him in our home. He drank our whisky and ate my food. He seemed like a nice man. I thought I could reason with him, but as soon as I saw him, I knew. Even then I was reaching for the envelope, not the gun. He smiled at me and called me ‘sweety’. I put the envelope back and shot him. There was nothing else for it. He was never going to leave us alone. If he was just a lousy blackmailer, a creep out for a quick quid, I probably could have lived with it, but he smiled at me. He was enjoying my pain. No one treats me like that.”

“Remind me never to get you, mad lady.”

“Do you have a car? Could you get me out of here?”

“I do, but it will take me a few minutes to retrieve it. Stay away from the window; the police will be here any minute. Russell Street is very close by. Wait five minutes and make your way to the back of the shop. Tell the girl you need to use the ladies room. I’ll be in the alley. I drive a grey Ford ’39 Coupe. She’s old, but she will get you out of here in one piece.”

I pulled my hat down over my eyes and resisted the urge to run to the car, but even at walking pace, I had the old Ford at the back of what I thought was the book shop in time to see the lady in the red dress step into the laneway. Within moments, she was in the car, beside me.

I’d been running on instinct up till then but now, in the relative silence, I was wondering why I was doing this.

There was a slight drizzle falling so I turned on the wipers.

If this went ‘pear shaped’ I was likely to be staring into a very bright light in the basement of Russell Street Police Headquarters before too long. I’d been rousted by the police a few times before, even been roughed up, but compared to my sergeant and the Japs, police were a bunch of lightweights. Even so, I didn’t need the trouble.

After a few minutes, it occurred to me that I was driving, but I didn’t know where.

“Where would you like to go?”

“Firstly, I need a drink; then I’d like to go home.”

“I can fix the first bit. There’s a bar I know where they don’t ask questions.”

Despite its name, Cafe What? was actually a bar.

It had been named that way for so long ago that no one could say with any accuracy how long it had been there, or who had come up with the name.

Everyone needs somewhere to go and the particular band of ‘everyone’ who went to Cafe What? were generally not welcome anywhere else. Being an outcast brings with it a fierce brand of loyalty towards other outcasts. No matter what happened at Cafe What? when asked, everyone was deaf, mute and blind.

“If you need to go to the ladies room when we get there, just cross your legs and hold it.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say that this isn’t the Windsor, and the last three people who went to the toilet here never came back. You usually need at least five tattoos to get into this place, but considering how good you look I think they will give you a pass. This place might come in handy if you need an alibi. Time is a fluid concept here, and for a large bunch of ‘tenners’, you could have arrived here anytime you say.”

We drank something that had all the punch of a newborn kitten and then drank a couple more. She paid an exorbitant amount for the drinks and the rest of what was in that envelope for the certainty that she had been there all afternoon.

I drove her to the address she gave me, parked around the corner and took her inside.

“You’ve done all this for me, and I don’t even know your name.”

“Names just get in the way. You might want to think about what you are going to say if the police come banging on your door.”

“I can think about that later, but for now, I would like you to kiss me.”

I wasn’t taken completely by surprise. I am over twenty-one, and this is 1957. The world spins a lot faster since the war ended.

I took off my hat and pushed her gently up against the wall. My lips were in working order and so were hers. I waited for a polite amount of time before I pulled her dress up to her hips and put my hand between her thighs. She didn’t try and stop me, and it is enough for you to know that I did what any good soldier would do in the circumstance. We moved around the house violently bumping each other for several hours. My legs felt like jelly by the time I walked out of her front door. I knew it was wise to park around the corner, but now I was regretting it. My hat was the only part of me that didn’t hurt, but it took a week to get the smile off my face.

I don’t know why, and I don’t care, but the police never worked it out, and the lady in red paid up for an alibi that she never needed.

The friend I was working for on that day asked me if I had seen what had happened and I gave him a smile. He got paid and so did I, and we went about our business.

I think about the lady in red from time to time and among the myriad of things I wonder about, one of them is why, throughout our torrid encounter, she never removed her white gloves.

  

Red Dress.

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This story is the latest in this series………………

https://araneus1.wordpress.com/2014/05/26/green-coat-black-gloves-red-handbag/

https://araneus1.wordpress.com/2014/06/02/i-shot-him/

 

It’s been 105 days since I dispatched the odious individual.

I don’t like to use his name because that tends to make him seem real, almost human; and he wasn’t. Okay, he was real, but he had a long way to go before he qualified as human.

You probably think that this low-life has been on my mind a lot over the past 105 days; well you’d be wrong.

I thought about him when I attended my friend’s memorial service, and I think about him whenever I wash this dress, but that’s it.

It’s funny the things you think about when you are planning something major in your life.

For example; do I carry the gun in my coat pocket or my handbag?

For a while, I was leaning towards the coat pocket.

I was thinking of Bette Davis pulling the gun out of her dressing gown and walking down the steps while pumping that bloke full of bullets. She kept pulling the trigger even after the revolver stopped firing. I liked the visual and I considered it, but my little automatic wouldn’t do that so I abandoned the idea. And besides, Bette Davis was not worried about being caught; I was.

Naturally, I thought a lot about my wardrobe. 

You probably think that I just picked up the green coat, black gloves and the red handbag. Not at all; I gave it lots of thought. The most important consideration was what would I look like in the papers if I got caught? My mother, yours too probably, always said I should wear clean underwear when I went out in case I was in an accident, that way I would not embarrass her; people would not think that she was a bad mother.

Quite apart from appearances, I needed to feel confident, and nothing makes you confident like a good, well-matched outfit.

The red dress was the final piece of the puzzle. I kept my coat done up, so no one knew I was wearing it, but I knew.

The shooting made headlines for a couple of weeks.

 

The police were baffled.

 

Then there was talk of blackmail, but the odious individual’s family threatened to sue so the word ‘blackmail’ stopped appearing in the papers. 

The homeless guy was under suspicion for a while, especially when he was found pulling a wad of notes out of the hollow of a tree. He explained that he had won it on the horses. No one believed him, but he was quickly cleared as a suspect, largely because he only had minute specks of gunpowder reside on him, and this was consistent with having been close to the shooting. 

When they searched him, he didn’t have a gun, but he did have an extensive collection of French postcards from around the time of the Great War. 

They belonged to his great-uncle who went missing in action. The postcards stayed in the family and were practically the only thing he had left that linked him to his family; at least that’s what it said in the feature article in the Weekend Age.

He was a celebrity for the required fifteen minutes. 

He made a little money — then he was quietly put aside as his place was taken in the public’s imagination by a drunk, violent football player, then a racist pop star, then a politician who told the truth about having lied. 

The blackmailer didn’t leave a list — either that or the police couldn’t crack the encryption on his laptop. 

I know that you think this is unlikely. 

The police have lots of resources for such things, but there are such things as unbreakable codes.

Apparently, Russian spies were particularly good at this during the cold war.

In typical Russian fashion, they took a simple approach. 

They saw that the German and Japanese codes had been broken during the war despite extremely sophisticated mathematics and mechanical devices. 

The Russians opted for the ‘pencil and paper’ approach. 

They simply used a book code. 

If you didn’t know what book they were using, it was virtually impossible to break the code.

The Americans were so worried about this simple technology that they embarked on a program whereby they digitised every book ever printed so that their computers could run any code that they came across. 

Knowing this, I smiled when the news broke that they were recording every phone call. 

The Yanks don’t muck around, and they have very deep pockets. Imagine how much it cost to put every book ever printed onto computer. Imagine the meeting where some junior clerk first suggested the idea. Imagine how powerfully simple a book code is if they went to all that trouble.

Somewhere, in a warehouse, there is a laptop in a box just waiting for some computer person to have one more go at cracking the code.

I wonder which book he chose? I wonder if the police have thought of a book code? Maybe they just ran out of recourses.

However it happened, they didn’t come knocking on my door. 

I’d been practising in front of a mirror. 

I needed to be sure that my expression was just right. 

I did not want to give myself away.

In case you were wondering, I carried the gun in my bag because, when I practised drawing it smoothly and dramatically from my pocket, it kept getting caught on the lining. I looked like an amateur tugging away at the pocket, trying to get the gun loose. 

The handbag worked out to be a better choice.

The homeless guy was true to his word and didn’t give me away. 

Many people might have shot him as well. 

I understand that it is dangerous to leave loose ends lying around, and nothing is more loose or ‘endy’ than an eye-witness. 

But I looked at it this way, he wasn’t the person I was after and somewhere, sometimes you have to trust someone. 

He seemed like a good bloke, and he didn’t let me down.

My washing is probably dry, so I had better bring it inside, I don’t want to leave it out overnight, but first I should see who that is at the door.

Painting by Kenton Nelson.

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I could really go a coffee about now?

Enjoy my work. Then buy me a coffee?

Enjoy my work.? Then buy me a coffee?

 

Coming Home.

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I bought the flowers before I got on the train. 

It was a bit of a gamble because flowers can get pretty beat up if you aren’t careful. 

When I was a little kid, my mum gave me a flower to take to school to give to my teacher. I used to walk to school and fool around with the other kids and by the time I got there the flower didn’t have any petals left on it. 

I was real embarrassed. 

That was a long time ago but I still remember it like it was yesterday, so you can see how worried I was about Velma’s flowers.

I worried about it a lot. 

If I waited till I got to Leviathan there might not be anywhere still open to buy flowers, so I took a chance.

As it turned out, she didn’t even notice the flowers. She just ran up and jumped on me. 

She don’t hardly weigh much so I didn’t mind.

She planted one right on me and wouldn’t let go. I was finding it hard to breathe but Velma didn’t seem to care. 

To be honest, I didn’t care either. 

That’s the way a girl should meet her fella when he’s been away a long time.

She was wearing a red dress. She knows I think she looks great in red. 

I feel bad for saying it but I was thinking about how great it was going to be to peel that red dress off her.

I had a present for her and I didn’t want to leave it in my suitcase. This old coat of mine has big pockets and it’s nestled in there, all cosy like. I’ll give it to her when we get back to our place, but I won’t tell her where it came from. 

She’d only get mad.

Coming home to a welcome like this almost makes it worth going away. 

I say almost but really, I’m more than happy to just stay here with Velma and watch her walk around in that red dress. 

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Illustration; a poster from an original painting by Jack Vettriano