Intermission - Noir

I remember the night she walked into, and out of, my life.  She looked like angels ought to look.  Golden locks, soaked from the rain outside, framed an elegant face with full lips and smoky eyes.  A moist red cocktail number clung to her curves like a second skin.  She was a dame in distress, or I’d never seen one.

I’d never seen a broad with so much class.  She moved like angels ought to move.  I barely even noticed when her one of her stiletto heels caught in the loose floorboard I’d been meaning to fix for weeks.  I’d never seen a lady trip so gracefully.  She reminded me of Grace Kelly, if Grace Kelly had taken a spill and broken her nose.  I offered a tissue to stop the bleeding, gesturing her to where a seat had been yesterday, only to remember I had pawned it for a pack of cigarettes.

I offered her a smoke and asked what I could do for her.  Still standing, she told me about her kid sister being kidnapped or something;  I was distracted by the way her chest moved when she spoke.  I asked why me, and she told me she’d heard I was the best around.  I nodded; I was indeed the best drycleaner in town, but she’d confused me with the private eye next door.  I wished her luck with that and, slipping her a discount card, reminded her that if she ever needed a stain removed I was her guy.  It was the last I saw of her.