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Lady Midnight

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            Butterflies skipped along the night, flapping the stars out of sight. Street lights shone and roaming passengers of the subway tunnels slithered in and out. Offbeat percussions roamed the air by the crumpled hands of hobos in third-handed jackets. Rusty, worn-out saxes began wheezing under the moonlight but none of that wearies any heart. It rather soothed the soul of the city in the night. The sleepless city. Men with ulcers in their guts limped through tubes and taxis in hope to find their homes, a dream unfulfilled.

Towering cityscapes held the violet skies in place, and soon the sky rumbled. And soon the sky fell. Cold drops of water sliced through the occupants’ face and as they scampered for refuge, a woman with thick-rimmed glasses gently lifted a now-lethargic butterfly on her finger. A pink triangle is tattooed to her right side of the neck. All it took was a gentle whisper, and the butterflies let fly. She waved her fingers at the butterfly, waving good-bye.

            “Sweet, sweet Red Admiral.” She whispered.

            And as she remained alone in the midst of escaping men in suits and third-hand jackets, she stood. And she walked, in search of a place of celebration, or perhaps a place of solemn refuge. She heard a sweet, slow percussion and thick strings of cello slapped and popped in an inn named ‘Midnight Inn’, located just between the subway tunnels and the walking lanes. As she entered, she tugged her chocolate-milk coloured cardigans between her breasts. She pushed the spring doors and laid a finger on her rouge lip-stick smudge on her lips.

            The heads tipped and turned, but the feet remain unmoved and unprovoked. And standing by the door to the Midnight Inn, a symbol of youth emerged, her left leg slanted. Her heels impaled the wooden floors. She took no offers from strangers, but settled gladly for her own pint. By the stool, she sipped on the cold lager. The bartender offered and retreated the packet of crisps at the first sign of ignorance from the woman with the thick-rimmed glasses.

            She asked for a bowl of blueberries instead.

            The bartender looked at her, puzzled.

            “To kick up the appetite.” She said.

            She kicked the leg of the stool with her back heels, munching blueberries and sipping lager quite playfully and delightfully. And from a safe distance, a man with trimmed beard tipped his hat. Smoke trickled through the nozzle of his cigarette and a pint of beer on his other hand. His gaze remained unchallenged. He wandered from her snow-white visage to the neat gash between her tits, unshielded by the chocolate-milk cardigan. And soon it moved down her thighs, and between her thighs. Those sweet coloured skirts.

            And soon both the wandering eyes met.

            “Blueberries?” She said, pushing the dark blue glass bowl towards the man with trimmed beard.

            “A bit out of place.” He said.

            “Beats beer and cigarettes any day.”

            The man and the woman smiled. She popped another one of those blueberries she was offering to her mouth. And the man and woman began to move away from their seats.

            Let no words taint the passion.

            Muffled groans rang one of many rooms of the Midnight Inn. The man slid the chocolate-milk cardigan below the waist of the woman with thick-rimmed glasses and undressed the woman’s eyes of it. Their lips did not part, or never seemingly will. The trench coat wrapped around the man with trimmed beard left willingly, by the guidance of the pale, skinny fingers of the woman. And the man forcefully slid up her skirts and marvelled at the prize. The woman bent her lips in a mock smile. And the man slid up his finger inside her. Her eyes rolled, her body jolted skyward. Breath escaped her lungs.

            “Warm.” The man said.

            The woman’s grip tightened on the man’s hair, the prickling sensation of his trimmed beard marred the surfaces of her naked breasts. And the motion sped its way to ecstasy. The woman put her palms over her mouth, hiding a bursting scream from within her. The man pulled out his finger and pulled away his belt. And as the man thrust forward, the woman could not hide it anymore. The two bodies become one, and it began to move towards the cabinet. On her left breast, the man read, “Lady Midnight”. And his lips began to suck on the pink triangle tattoo. His lower half began to motion forward in a jerk, and slowly backwards.

            “Give it all to me, Lady Midnight.” The man said, his lower lips attached to her neck. The warm whisper stung her and she began to groan. Another gust of breath was pushed out of her. And then another. And then another.

            They began to swing around, the woman seated on the man’s palms. The man continued to push his legs up, panting. The woman was pushed against the wall, her wandering hands pushed off the lamp. And the darkness consumed them. She leaned against the wall, sitting on the man, her hands up gliding across the cold surface of the wall. A pair of hands groped her breasts. And the man’s movement sped through the motions. Loud groans were soon heard by the young pretty woman.

            “Inside, inside.” She whispered to his ear. The warm breath ran down his neck, and he began to scream. “Inside me.”

            They began to fall to the ground, the woman still neatly sat on the man. The man caressed her face in the darkness, and caressed away the drops of sweat on her neck. And slowly, the man inched forward to her lips.

            “I love you, Lady Midnight.” He whispered, before tasting the rouge lipstick. And then a cold sharpness punctured his lips. Warm blood dripped down onto the man’s chin.

            “Inside me, inside me now.” The woman weakly whispered.

 

***

 

            The sounds ceased for the night and the door to the room opened the night after. A woman with thick-rimmed glasses, dressed in a chocolate-milk coloured cardigan walked down gracefully under the stairs and into the lobby of the Midnight Inn. She checked out alone.

            And as she walked, she was greeted with offbeat percussions and the wheezing of the rusty, worn-out saxes. She pushed a coin into the hobo’s pocket and sat by the stairs of the subway tunnel, waiting for the butterflies to skip along the night.


Note: Try to parallel this story with the song by Stina Nordenstam, \"Butterfly\".  

Previous short story:
How to Look Pretty
Next short story:
Read Me If You Can
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about the writer
Like what Neil Gaiman said, short stories can be like a magic trick. It provoke minds, it triggers wonder. I do look up to a writer with authentic ability to write his or her mind out. Screw cliches, its your emotions that matters.
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