Copycat Chick

Last week I took the challenge through Iron Writers. For fun, and because the prompt was so crazy hard, I went ahead and did it again. I’m not in the contest, but here’s my take on it:
Elements: Spanky tossing money out of a window, fear of judgement, coffee, and being summoned to Dumbledoor’s office. Crazy, right?

More, Maybe, Inevitable
July 2016
Word count: 394

 

They split on a Tuesday.

Kyla Bradstreet. Adam Pyken. Longtime lovers, separated two weeks after their 20 year high school reunion.

They’d never married; they didn’t believe in it. Once upon a time such things mattered to them. Nobody owned anybody. Mutual freedom. Not just feminism. More like Freedom with a capital F.

Still, they’d been together since 1997.

Kyla felt it deep down in her heart, the severing of their romantic ties.

She knew Adam felt the same.

But still, it was the right decision.

Maybe not mutual. Not exactly. But necessary, imperative, inevitable.

Not Spanky throwing money out the window. More like servicing your car on time. But not your car, your life, your soul.

On Friday afternoon the new guy, Ramone Cephas, asked her out, having heard of her split. Maybe seeing her cry a little, at odd times.

He was discreet, cornering her by the fridge in the break room, whispering in her ear, his hot words blowing her hair just behind her ear. A date that sounded more like a proposition, but it was a new beginning for Kyla.

That Saturday night she showed up at the pool hall on the arm of a Millennial, and drank her first beer as fast as possible. He watched her the whole time, his eyes dark and mysterious, her eyes widening under his inspection, her throat making an odd gulping sound she couldn’t control.

It hit her fast, a curve ball to her insides. Not her stomach, her stomach was fine. A little further down than that.

Twenty minutes later, she excused herself to the bathroom, used the facilities, then stood before the mirror staring into coffee colored eyes and at newly dyed hair. Damn the gray anyway. Did it matter?

Three young tight-bodied women joined her glancing her way, judging her then looking away, dismissing her, determining Kyla was no threat to them and their world domination. Or at least their domination of the men in the club.

Kyla sighed, her eyes dropped to the sink. The women were fifteen years her junior, more maybe. She was ridiculous. It was inevitable.

She returned to Ramone, Hermione Granger aged twenty-five years, summoned for one night to Dumbledore’s office for a super secret Time Turner, knowing her golden hour was ultimately done. Wasted on Adam.

Finished.

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