#valplum

for @kevinxrichards

Another Friday night alone, and Flossie Carlo was making the most of it. The redheaded woman in her early thirties sat sipping a glass of chilled champagne, silky pink marabou robe fallen open on either side of her, bare feet propped up on the ottoman. At first glance, it might appear that she was living in the lap of luxury. But Flossie was a girl with caviar taste on a Cracker Jack budget. A pile of dirty laundry sat untended in the corner of her living room, there was a large crack in the kitchen wall that the landlord had promised to fix two months ago, and the AC was out again. Her apartment wasn’t Fifth Avenue, but it was home, and after two years in the place, she’d gotten used to all its quirks.

But some neighbors, it seemed, never learned.

Luke had only been her neighbor for a few months. The dark headed man had been friendly enough in the halls - shy, but kind, and Flossie always took a moment to speak to him when they ran into each other in the hallway or wound up in the laundromat at the same time. But aside from his name and that he was a teacher, she didn’t know much about the man. Well, she hadn’t known much about the man. A sound caught her attention and she quirked an auburn brow, muting an old episode of 30 Rock to listen for it again. Luke was watching something, and out of curiosity she strained to lean closer to the wall, barely able to make out the soft smacking sounds of skin on skin. 

That was enough to get her scrambling out of her seat, and she tip toed to their shared wall, pressing her ear against it. “Mommy, I-“ Flossie’s fair skin flushed at the words. That was definitely what she thought it was right? And he was definitely doing what she thought he was, right? The thought alone made her heart race, stifling a giggle just in case he could hear her, too. It didn’t take long for Flossie to have a plan, and in a few minutes flat she was standing outside Luke’s door, that dramatic robe swapped for a tee shirt that teased the tops of her thighs, boy shorts barely hidden from view, and a worn pair of slippers on her feet. She knocked casually on the door and greeted the man who opened it with a bright smile.

“Hey! Um, sorry to bother you so late and everything but my AC is out again and I’m dying over there. Do you have a fan or something I could borrow?”

The part that was killing Atlas the most is he was the only one in the company that had nothing to come home too. If anything it should have been him, he hadn’t had a mother, his father well he didn’t care if the man was alive or dead. No wife, no children, nothing that if he never made it out of war he’d ever be remembered. So why was it him that was stuck living still? What was his purpose? Did he even have any? When he slept he got peace from the questions but now that he was awake? It was never ending.

“There’s not much to really talk about, survivors guilt. Thought I could move on, guess I can’t as easily as I thought I would.” He knew she was briefed on the details of the accident, the roadside bomb that tore through their caravan. But he hadn’t spoken about it, he hadn’t wanted to.

Neither were the lightest on their feet, but she could feel the love between them, and it brought a smile to her soft pink lips. “They look great, don’t they?” She mused to the best man, her de facto date for the evening despite the fact that the two had never met before the rehearsal dinner the day before. Edie pressed the cool glass against the center of her exposed cleavage, sending a pleasant chill down her spine to help the woman cool off in the somewhat stuffy event space. She teased the glass up and down the plunging neckline of her gown idly, leaving droplets of condensation behind on her fair skin. It wasn’t until she glanced up at the best man that she realized exactly what a scene she’d been putting on - and how his eyes were glued to it. A playful smirk found her face.

“Easy, tiger. Keep staring and you might get yourself in trouble.”

“Let’s see…”

Poppy sat beside Isaac in the far corner of the library’s fourth floor, the one dedicated to reference books and old texts that rarely left the stacks. She’d cocked her head to the side like she always did when she was deep in concentration, a brown strand of hair falling from her loose ponytail to tease at the edge of her face. A single digit followed along the faded notation of intricate Middle English script in a dusty old book, reading each line to herself before parting her lips to speak, a certain authority in her voice despite her hushed tone.

Some phrases were directly translated, and for others she used more modern substitutes, ensuring that Isaac understood not only the words themselves, but the tone and intention behind them. Her cheeks flushed just barely as she read a particularly erotic line of the poem, wetting her lips before she began. She hardly needed to look at the words for this one - she knew them by heart. Lewd descriptions of a woman’s temptations and desire, her aching need to be worshipped and filled, flowed fervently from her mouth, and by the time she’d finished the stanza she was nearly breathless. Poppy swallowed and turned to Isaac, the man she’d began translating poetry for weeks ago, a sheepish smile on hr face. She wasn’t a stranger to erotic texts…in fact, this one was one of her favorites, and that familiarity only contributed to the heady, fervent way she read it to the bookish man beside her.

“I love this one,” she admitted with a bright smile. Her eyes found Isaac’s for a moment behind his glasses, and she watched as his blush only seemed to grow the more attention she paid to him. When her doe-eyed gaze drifted back down, she had hoped to make him feel more relaxed, to take the attention off of him. But what she found instead was something demanding her attention - an undeniable bulge in his pants that pulled the fabric so taut she could nearly see the ridge of his swollen head beneath it. She chewed at her bottom lip, gripping at the edge of the desk where she sat to keep herself from reaching out and grabbing what called to her.

“I-Isaac,” she breathed, looking back up at him with arched brows, asking a question barely above a whisper that she clearly knew the answer to. “Are you…hard? Did I…did the poem, I mean, do that?”

Claire Caraway was seated in a comfortable armchair in the corner of her den-turned-classroom, one leg crossed over the other. The latest copy of New Yorker was splayed across her lap, and just as she was finishing an article she heard the door open and glanced at the clock. Five o’clock on the dot.

She’d only seen this particular pupil a few times and he’d yet to make her wait. Well dressed, well spoken, full of decorum, and so so shy, Isaac was a pleasure to instruct. Such a pleasure, in fact, that he had quickly become her favorite student - not that she’d told him that, of course.

“Good afternoon as always, Isaac.” Ms. Caraway’s voice was always melodic and airy, yet always contained a gentle air of authority. Her heels tapped against the hardwood of the small, cozy condo, seeming to create a symphony all their own. She told herself it was childish, but she couldn’t help but believe in the beauty, and music, of everything - even her shoes clacking against the floor. Claire’s passion for music made her career as a piano instructor fun on most days, particularly with students like Isaac who were just so eager to learn.

She leaned against her desk and adjusted the hem of her sweater. She wore a buttoned up cream colored cardigan, one of her favorite items of clothing. The woman wore it often, despite the fact that it did little to hide the supple swells of her body, and it looked as decadently soft as it felt. She was busying herself smoothing out the fabric when she caught a glimpse of Isaac’s face and realized he looked frustrated. His body language even seemed flustered. Very flustered, in fact. She tilted her head of copper curls to the side softly, watching him attempt to get settled in at the piano, giving him a moment before curiosity got the better of her.

It had been a long, long night.

Not a tedious one - no, in fact Flossie had a wonderful time on the arm of Isaac Gates, charming guests at his parents’ gala with her bubbly sort of ease. But after hours on her feet in heels, she was thrilled when Isaac’s driver finally chauffeured them back to his home.

Flossie was still hooked arm in arm with Isaac when they entered his spacious bedroom, the redhead wasting no time in kicking off her shoes. She stood barefoot in a floor length aquamarine gown, a plunging neckline only enhanced by the elegant necklace Isaac had given her for her birthday. Between her supple cleavage and the shimmer of the delicate platinum against her fair skin, Flossie had received quite a few subtle glances, and perhaps even more outright stares. But the only eyes she truly cared about were Isaac’s, and she’d caught him sneaking peaks all evening long, every single glimpse bringing a bright smile to her pink painted lips and a mischievous thought to her mind.

"I’m so tired,” Flossie spoke in a faux whine, reaching up to pull her hair out of a complicated twist, deep red waves falling easily over her exposed shoulders. Any other night, Flossie would have retired to the guest bedroom that shared a wall with Isaac’s, but their weeks of near-flirting had left her feeling bold, as had Isaac’s conspicuous trip to the bathroom a few day ago. And so without a warning, Flossie slipped out of her gown, allowing it to fall to a silky puddle on the floor.

Had this been the first or second time Isaac had visited her apartment, Flossie might have bothered to throw on a tee shirt or a towel, but by now they’d  become good friends, and Isaac was well accustom to one of Flossie’s worst indulgences - fashion. If there was a sample sale or trunk show in New York you could bet Flossie (and her wallet) would find it. The bright young woman would scoop up everything she even thought she might look good in, then wait until she got home to assess the garments thoroughly. She’d become a familiar face at all the local consignment shops, reselling anything she decided didn’t flatter her figure. She’d asked Isaac to come over and keep her company while she tried on the spoils of her latest escapade, knowing full well that he wouldn’t say no. He never did to her, really, and she couldn’t help but like that.

“Good morning!” She wrapped her arms around him in a friendly hug and then stepped back, twirling barefoot on the worn hardwood floors. “I’m pretty sure I’m keeping this one,” she spoke more to herself than to him, tugging at the bow that sat tied beneath her generous bust. “Do you want coffee?” This time her words were directed at Isaac, scarlet locks tied in a high ponytail and swaying in time with her hips as she moved toward the kitchenette. She turned to him with a teasing look. “Or champagne?”

“Another Saturday night at the laundromat.”

Maeve spoke the words with an unamused sigh, walking into the empty 24-hour building that smelled of soap and dryer sheets with a large basket of clothes in her hands. She made her way toward one of the washers, sorting out half of her clothing and digging for change in her pocket, humming along with some 80′s one-hit-wonder that was playing on the radio. With the familiar whir of the machine in the background, Maeve moved across the room, propping herself up on the countertop meant for folding, leaning comfortably against the wall. She crossed her bare legs underneath her, jean shorts covering as little as they could get away with. An oversized shirt fell almost to the hem of her shorts anyway, soft and worn from multiple washes, slinking off her right shoulder to expose a bit of fair, slightly freckled skin.

Maeve pulled a magazine snagged from the apartment lobby and a bright pink round lollipop from her messenger bag, slinging it on to the counter next to her. The sucker was unwrapped and popped between her lips, the wrapper tossed into the trashcan, the magazine unfolded and placed in her lap. She started flipping through the pages idly, raking her free hand through her messy platinum locks. She was certain she’d be spending the wee hours of the morning alone in the laundromat.

Until Will Keaton walked in the door that is.

She didn’t know Will - no not by a longshot. And ten minutes earlier she wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a crowd. But it just so happened that the local magazine she’d picked up was featuring one of New York City’s “best and brightest bachelors”. Among a list of realtors, Wallstreet bankers, musicians, and restaurateurs was a section for actors. There in living color was Will, well dressed and posing in what she assumed was his kitchen. What the fuck was he doing in the laundromat?

Maeve glanced at the page then back at the man, arching her eyebrows in surprise. “Been to Bryant Park lately?” Her tone was dry and cutting, a broad smile pasted on her face. “Or,” she glanced back down at the article, looking for another quote. “...’An inn after putting your horse up in the barn?’” Her eyes met his, glimmering with amusement. “What are you, a cowboy?”