I decided that I needed to provide you with some new fodder. So, I dug up some old fodder to entertain you. I now present you with a very short short story with an open-ended plot I originally wrote 6 August 2008 called "It's A Marvelous Night For A Moondance". Enjoy.
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It's A Marvelous Night For A Moondance
A thin line of smoke drifted toward the ceiling from the cigarette pressed between her fingers. Her head was pounding. It was the same thing, only a different day: tired, bored, and hung over.
She watched as the smoke curled and twisted in the slight breeze that was slipping under the bedroom door. What day was it? Monday? Thursday? It didn't matter any more. Everyday was like the last in her constant haze. All that mattered was that she was lying comfortably, smoking. In the back of her mind was a lingering thought that she had something she was supposed to be doing, but it was trumped by the feeling that her head was in a vice.
The phone rang and she disregarded it, closing her eyes. She mentally begged it to stop, but the phone didn't comply. Almost tempted to get up and answer it, she thought the better and didn't move. There wasn't going to be anyone on the other end that she wanted to talk to anyway. Her mom, a bill collector, maybe even a drinking buddy. None of them mattered. What mattered was that she didn't move. Her headache was too big.
Finally her smoke needed to be ashed. Where the fuck was the ashtray? The only thing she could see was her cigarette in the faint bit of light drifting in from the closed curtains.
She closed her eyes again. Movement was becoming a necessity if she didn't want to ash on the floor. The ashtray wasn't on the ground next to her. No, that was too far away. It wasn't balanced on her stomach. She'd be able to feel it. The only possible place it could be was on the bed, opposite of the direction she was facing. She slowly rotated her pounding head, eyes still closed.
Once the pain of movement had subsided, she allowed her eyes to flutter open. She had found the ashtray, but she had also gotten a first glimpse of the man lying in bed next to her.
She knew who he was. She hadn't brought a stranger home from the bar. No, she had brought him home from the bar.
He was in his boxers, sleeping peacefully enough: attractive face calm, hands crossed delicately over chest, breaths slow and rhythmic. Every inch of his body was relaxed and vulnerable.
It was then that her thoughts turned to murder.
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