-edit- though I'm still trying to figure out how clothes always "dissolve" when they're inconvenient. I gotta learn that trick.

quote:

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If I was going to chain up a women and force her to my will, I don't think it would be Katie

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She saw him as she crawled into the bobble room. He was sitting against the mesh window holding a red baseball cap in his hands. The floor tilted a little his way. He didn’t look like he belonged in an XTreme Fun Center inflatable maze; the way he sat, the ripped Levis, and the blackness of his turtleneck told her that he’d rather be astride his Kawasaki. He had long slicked back black hair and Ray-Bans in his breast pocket. The stubble on his face looked as carefully groomed as his sideburns. He didn’t look like a jatraquero, at least not how she’d pictured one. But he was holding the red baseball cap.

"Frank6848?" she ventured.

His head whipped around. He pierced her with his dark eyes. "Yeah," he said in a quiet voice. "blacwolve?"

She smiled shyly, rolled her eyes, and shrugged. Now she wished she’d put on something a little more sexy, maybe something for a motorcycle ride. Her arms around that chest. Mmm. A strand of her long blonde hair fell over her eyes and she brushed it away.

She crawled over towards him. When she got past the center, the bobble room tilted, and she slid into him with a whoop of surprise. He caught her and helped her upright, laughing. Was that Polo?

He sighed and glanced around. "We the only ones?"

"I guess so."

"Let’s get out of here, blacwolve."

He led her out of the maze with the surety of a woodsman. She admired the smoothness of his steps, and the way he seemed to taste the air to determine which direction to go. Once, he stopped short, and, not paying attention, she walked into his hard, muscled back. "Here," he laughed, and took her hand.

Fifteen minutes later she was pinned beneath him, breathing hard.

"Had enough of this?" he said, grinning, his face inches away from hers.

"Uncle," she giggled. She liked the kind of man who didn’t let her win just because she was a girl. Truth to tell, she knew a little kung fu, but she had let her knees bend when he came at her. She wanted to know what a full body lunge would feel like.

He struggled to his feet and helped her up. Together, they began shedding their big padded sumo wrestler suits.

"Want to go on the Velcro wall?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

*claps for afr*

Could someone do one for me? Here is my picture. My hair is longer now, though not long enough for even a short ponytail, yet. I tend to prefer short brunettes with short hair. As for situations, office romance would be my preference, though I of course leave such things to the whims of the writer.

I feel silly, but the writing so far has been quite good, and quite funny, and I dont want to lose the chance to have a great conversation piece . Plus, Im a sucker for cool mementos of places I love.

edit: Doh! forgot my real name: Russell

I have come to spend many of my days in the office lavatory, where I like to hide from my supervisor Maude and her oozing pimples. Crouching between urinals may not seem like a pleasant way to pass the time (and, indeed, it is not) but it does lend itself to contemplation. And contemplation is a pretty thing, especially when compared to Maude.

It was during one such session (yes, we’ll call them “sessions”) that I met her. (Not Maude, the other one.) I was checking my dark, wavy hair in the bathroom mirror when I first heard her voice.

Russell, she called. It was a blind woman, naked from the waist up. (And likely from the waist down, too, but, alas, I could not tell.) She seemed to be stuck in one of the urinals and was struggling to free herself. She said it again, Russell…

I frowned at my reflection, trying to decide if I should cut my hair or grow it long. What is it? I asked at last, annoyed by her persistence. Why do you keep saying that? Because it’s your name, she said. Is it? I asked. (You see, I had forgotten.) But she just clawed at the basin’s porcelain rim, moaning, Russell, help me...

You sure? I asked. Her clouded eyes roved back and forth, as though she did not understand. Sure that’s my name, I said. Russell. Doesn’t sound right to me at all. Sure it isn’t something more like Pleb? Crud? Or Booble?

Russell, please, she said. I turned to her with folded arms, a little exasperated by now. Come on, be serious. How do you know my name isn’t Booble? Her short dark hair tossed from side to side. It isn’t, she said. Yes, but how do you know? I asked. How can you be sure?

She stopped struggling and clutched her head in her hands. Because...because...my name is Booble.

I just had to laugh. Oh, right, I said. We can’t both have the same name now, can we? Her blind eyes rolled backward, and her mouth slackened to a gaping grin. “Russell, kiss me,” she sighed.

I leaned down, tumbling through the fog of her blue eyes, as her fingers slid through my hair like drowning eels, tangled in the seaweed of my soul…

I have never known such softness. It was like cotton, like roses crushed but not dried, like an algae-thickened pond. Almost too soft, I murmured…

By then it was too late. Already her eyes were moistened with decay. Her nose had softened, too, and began to spread like jelly to her melting cheeks.

Booble, no! I cried.

(I didn't get it.)

I just knew my dislike of both Beckett and romance novels would someday come in handy.