PASSIONATE RATIONS

So, here’s the beginning of a story I started recently. Feel free to post comments regarding where you think it should go from here. Perhaps, if you’re good, I’ll continue with installments….

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After he slipped in some errant buttercream frosting, Garrett decided to give up dancing for the night. That was the problem with holding dances at the Cupcake Café—the floor always reflected the daily menu. Sure, the Swing Gang tried to get the floor clean before each Café Bash, but the trouble with volunteers was they tended to show up too late to ensure pristine cleanliness. So much for suede-soled shoes. He’d learned before that raw leather fared better with baked goods.

Well, a newer dancer, he wasn’t in the mood for dancing anyway. It still took too much effort to translate his thoughts into action. He’d never been good at languages and dance didn’t come easily.

“I’m going home,” he murmured dejectedly to Wanda, the Café’s owner and sometimes torch singer with a swing-jazz edge. She’d been jumping into numbers with the band all night, her voice like caramel and crème.

“See ya, baby,” she pouted, peeking out from under sequined amethyst eyelashes, reaching out to touch his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

As they always did when he spoke to her, his eyes dropped to the mocha arcs of her ample breasts, barely confined by the aquamarine shimmer and strain of her square-cut satin sheath. She always dressed herself like she did her cupcakes, with pure spangled abandon.

He smiled and turned to leave.