Being Beta

Exercises in the higher banter with One of 26. Elsewhere called 'poet of adland'. By a whipple-squeezer. Find out why being beta is the new alpha: betarish at googlemail dot com

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Fiction: Phillie's

He lifted the brim of his fedora, a touch from his index finger sufficient, his sightline freed up enough so he could shoot a quick, admiring glance at the flame-red girl in the flame-red dress. Pity she was looking at her flame-red nails.

His eyes moved across to the clock. 2.30am. He slipped off his bar stool, nodded curtly to the guy behind the counter, and made his way out of Phillie’s.

2.31am. He looked up the road ahead of him. Skyscrapers were framed by moonlight; one, two, forever blocks ahead of him.

He pulled up his collar and started to walk.

The moon was getting closer as he moved north. It started to fill his vision as it sunk towards him. He paused to stop and rub his disbelieving eyes. In that moment, a woman stepped down from the crescent now level with the street.

She was wearing a diaphanous dress; sequins shimmering, straps falling off her shoulders. Her grey eyes sparkled, her hair was all glisten and glitter and glide.

She took his face in her hands. She held his gaze for a moment, then murmured to him, “This night is real,” before kissing him.

He blinked. She had gone. The moon was high again in the sky. It was 2.32am.

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