Noir

by Christopher Moore

“What do I call you, then, miss?” I asked the blonde, locking my baby blues on her cow browns, careful not to ogle her wares, as dames often do not care for that, even when it is evident that they have spent no little time and effort preparing their wares for ogling.

Then she laughed, and I felt like I just hit a home run.

That’s when the first kiss happened. It was the kind of kiss that he wanted to wake up to and keep refreshing periodically until he got one long last one, salty with tears, in his casket.

I wanted to throw her across the seat and hammer her like Martin Luther on the church door,