Ticking

On her bare legs Sheila wore a studio tan. She was well over six feet tall and loved to dawn spiky high-heels at sunset. Her short shorts were short, and her miniskirts were mini, but her blouses never bloused. They rarely covered her entire stomach which was hard and flat, or much of her store-bought breasts, which were hard and ample. Sheila kept her blond hair unkempt and wore it straight down her back to her sharp-boned hips which were steadily in motion moving to and fro, this way and that, back and forth, around and around and around. She wore an oversized man’s wristwatch on her bicep like an armband and she wore it everywhere, even in the shower, even in bed. She didn’t care what time it was, she didn’t mind being late and she was always late, and she wouldn’t dream of offering you an excuse; she didn’t like excuses. So I stood outside her house and waited for her to come to the door which was ajar. Her curtains were drawn. Her outside lights were dark. I waited as long as I could wait, and then waited some more.

(193 words)