There is little in the way of illumination beyond the come hither of the one-arm bandit, the dim bulbs and the fluorescents striping in repeat in the mirror behind the teak. She works the tables, throwing hello, hello, hello. He orders a drink and he admires her over the rim.
Eventually, she nudges him at the jump, brushes his cheek. She regards him, unbuttons her smile and begins. He leans in, listens, breathes her in. Her words nest his hair. He watches their faces, hers and his, loom in the brass, grotesque the glass. “Wait here,” she says. So this is what he does.
nickreeves 
coolest of the settings mystery abounds thanks for sharing friend xo
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If I squint I’m almost there.
xo
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i’ll twitch my nose 👃🏻
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🙂
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Intriguing . . .
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“Beyond the come hither of.” Ace.
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The old ones are sometimes best 🙂 xx
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I really, really, REALLY like your writing.
“throwing hello…”
“unbuttons her smile…”
“Her words nest his hair…”
Hither I’ve come. :)) xoxo
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Wow! Big smile! 🙂
Thanks, Nadine x
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