Men Who Break Promises

and the women who let them
a precautionary tale.
A broken promise cuts both ways. You just don’t know it at the time.

The women at the table by the window chatted like childhood friends.

One wore a blouse as white as her hair. The silk draped her flat chest. Her black pencil skirt crept under her thighs. She kicked her ankle back and forth in a paradiddle, the same rhythm, only the pace of the beat changing.

Her drink? Vodka neat.

Her companion faced the window and rolled her wine stem between her fingers cautiously, as though afraid to sip. She leaned forward, across the table, closing the circuit between them. The hem of her gypsy skirt brushed her ankles and espadrilles.

Her ginger hair cascaded in curls past her bare shoulders and down her spine. Each gesture exploded, unplanned and awkward. You might have pegged her for a smoker, except her fingers and teeth showed no stains.

They laughed, touched each other on the wrist. Only crumbs remained of the blonde’s salmon tartine. Shreds of black kale and cilantro littered the cloth around the redhead’s baguette . If you didn’t eavesdrop, you’d never guess they’d just left a therapy session for women whose husbands passed.

My latest short story in Literally Literary.

Men Who Break Promises

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