Tuesday Tales: From the Word PASTE

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog post where a select group of authors share their work in progress with you. I’m working on a romantic comedy entitled, Make Mine a Manhattan. This week’s word is PASTE. I used PASTING, a variation of the word. Enjoy.

Pasting a fake smile on my face, I turned to the man and began rubbing at the stain on his shirt and pants, praying they wouldn’t stain; otherwise, I would be expected to cough up for replacement designer clothes that cost more than my annual tax bill. My new t-shirt was probably ruined, and that annoyed me more, causing me to rub harder.

I stopped dead, my heart pounding out a primitive beat, my lungs refusing to function.

While the stranger had to be at least six foot six, I was barely five feet tall. Most of the coffee stain was on his crotch, a fact my addled brain had ignored. My hand was essentially massaging that area of his anatomy, and I could feel something cylindrical growing hard under it.

I jumped away as if I’d been tasered. The old, Is that a flashlight in your pocket or are you happy to see me? joke ripped through my mind, and I smothered a giggle.

“Robin, you’re just making it worse,” my mother said, handing the man the pile of napkins. “Perhaps you would like to step into the washroom, sir?”

The man grunted and reached for the napkins. I couldn’t help noticing his hands. Whoever I’d collided with had the hands of a pianist, with long tapered fingers. What would it be like to have hands like that caress my body?

Mother of God! What is wrong with me?

As soon as he moved away, I rushed out the door, jogging the three blocks home faster than I’d ever run them before, grateful that at seven in the morning, the street was all but deserted.

The minute I stepped inside the house, I collapsed into the chair, a sudden fit of giggles taking my breath away. I laughed until my sides ached. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the scene and dissolved into giggles again.

Of course Mom would place the blame for this squarely on me … the wayward daughter who never did anything right.

Shakespeare wandered into the living room and meowed a welcome.

“It served him right,” I began explaining the incident to my companion. “Had he been the requisite six feet away, he would’ve escaped his fate, and I would now be finishing my iced cappuccino.”

I pulled off the damp and badly stained t-shirt, dismayed to find my new sports’ bra equally stained.

Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales