Breakfast in Stilettos

by Liz Kingswood

  I hit the Save button and sat back in my chair. I was still groggy from lack of sleep, but I wanted to finish the story before I crawled back into bed for the sleep of the dead. With Frank.

  He looked about sixteen lying there with the blanket nestled about his naked hips. I felt like Psyche viewing Cupid for the first time. Now if only he didn’t wake up and run away, the way Cupid had.

  I thought back to the rest of our evening. He and I had spent the rest of the night at 13 Coins restaurant, that haunt of Seattle late-night revelers, snuggling into those famous high-back barstools that curled around you like wombs.

  We talked until the faint golden traces of dawn began to tint the morning sky. I learned about his childhood. How his mother had been so disapproving. How she’d made him stand in the corner while she did housework, dusting the furniture with a lovingness that she never showed him. We’d talked and talked. And promised that this was a new beginning for us.

  Tabula rasa.

  When we left 13 Coins, Frank followed me home. What followed was simple, natural, and—for the first time ever—surprisingly free of baggage. Maybe we were a tad more adventurous than usual. Maybe a blindfold was involved, and a serving spoon the size of a paddle. Maybe our lovemaking involved one or two positions we had never tried. It was all wonderful and even a little mind-blowing.

  Then Frank had promptly fallen asleep.

  But I didn’t mind. My brain was awhirl with all that had happened.

  I looked outside. The day was taking shape and the Sunday churchgoers were arriving, driving their carloads of family into the parking area behind the church. I knew Asshole Bob would be standing there with his nasty grams, ready to tag errant cars. In fact, I still had a small stack of them on my desk from the last time he and I talked. I hadn’t recycled them yet.

  Just then, a big red Suburban pulled up in front of my house, blocking my view of the bright green yard across the street at the church. Out of the SUV spilled a pile of kids in their Sunday best with Mom and Dad in tow. After several aborted attempts to corral the brood, they crossed the street and disappeared into the church. I certainly saw Bob’s point of view. They had a huge parking lot in the back of the church. They didn’t need to park in front of my house. In fact, it would be much safer for the entire family if they had parked in back.

  Feeling miffed and self-righteous in my newly found assertiveness, I grabbed one of Asshole Bob’s nasty grams and wrote a short paragraph citing the fact that the Bishop had promised that all his parishioners would park in the back and pointing out the safety benefits of said parking alternative. I marched outside in my Scarlet Girls and slipped the note deliberately and with gusto under the Suburban’s windshield wiper.

  As I turned, I saw Asshole Bob standing on his porch, taking a drag off the ever-present cigarette he had in his hand. He nodded to me once and gave a thumbs-up.

  Sal was apparently still out. I could only imagine what Mom and Kenner had ended up doing. No I didn’t want to go there. I knew that eventually they would each have their say about Frank. But I was ready. I had learned something about him and myself, and starred in my own little Strange and Unusual story.

  I went back inside and knocked the heater down a notch. I placed the stilettos back on my dresser and gave them one final inspection. Cinderella’s glass slippers had nothing on them.

  I crawled back into bed and snuggled up with Frank, enjoying the luxurious warmth of his skin. He stirred and pulled me in tight before drifting back to sleep.

  I smiled. “Well, fiddly-dee,” I whispered, knowing that Scarlet would have been very proud indeed.

  Liz Kingswood possesses an eclectic mix of talents. She has been a corporate vice president, a university professor, a tea sommelier, a design guru, and is currently working on her PhD in mythology and depth psychology. Her more than twenty years in the graphics industry culminated in speaking engagements across the country and led to writing credits for industry articles, video scripts, user guides, online training and the Adobe InDesign Classroom in a Book.

  Her fiction writing has won literary awards, including the Zola award for the short story on which this book is based.

  Liz is married to a Canadian punk rock musician and alternates time between Vancouver, BC, Seattle and Santa Barbara.

  You can find Liz online at www.lizkingswood.com.