"Mirror Moon"
By A.H. Scott
Published by A.H. Scott at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 A.H. Scott
MIRROR MOON
BY
A.H. SCOTT
Flannel is so outdated.
Lousy material enveloped drained drones, as they start a daily file into capsules of lucidity across the city.
Beneath dormant flannel suits in Manhattan, swirls a cauldron of desire. That uniform of uniformity, remained armor for many a financial Fagan. Able to lead wealth to their own pockets, prestige flowed into their ever-expanding titles of functionality.
Corner office of leather chair or cubicle with corkboard architecture, places penthouse purchaser above leashed leasers.
Cloistered within the finest fabrics, those souls come to life under misty moonlight. Pinstripe panache is today's aphrodisial allure.
Picket fences and block associations have been replaced with penthouses and condo review boards. Families flock to yawn in oblivious security of transparently gated suburbia. While urbane dwellers of New York City, yearn for that pulsating fever.
Wives, husbands, children and household critters, stayed in the family portrait of frozen smiles. As to an office setting, occurrences there were something completely different.
Downtown buildings after dark, seemed to be the place where truth emerged. Not only did electricity shift, but power of another sort transferred.
Twirling leather purse strap around a French manicured hand, shapely Joanna stood alone before a trio of elevators. Tiny taps of white Ferragamo toe gave an up-tempo.
Footsteps approached from the east, as a figure came closer. Lightly flicking auburn hair of bicep length from her face, she placed index finger onto an illuminated button.
"Ms. Randolph", mature, male voice gave a greeting.
"Mr. Donovan", giving cordial reply.
Whirring of a floor waxing machine consumed a nearby hallway, as the cleaning crew began it's evening duties. Tiny transistor radio on a cleaning supply cart was set New York's oldies station, WCBS fm.
Sparkling silver doors divided and both entered that elevator. Entrance closed, as they stood ten feet from one another.
Adorned in navy blue, pinstriped suit with a royal colored handkerchief, Douglas Donovan was a 47-year-old vice President of pleasant physique.
Marriage, mansion, Mercedes. The good life was in his hands.
Gathered at a full bosom, a fuchsia wrap around dress, gave a masterstroke to her sensuous body. Joanna Randolph's 37 years, seemed that it should have been minus a decade or more. Maidenhood flowed from red follicle to painted toenail.
Duplex, divorce, decadence. Pearl of independence placed in pliant palm.
Divorced for over two years, submersion in an uninhibited sea was that added plateau of life's zest. Being administrative assistant to head of foreign investments, Joanna was an integral part of this financial team.
Purse dangled at Joanna's side, as the brook of silence was broken, "You have quite a command of that boardroom, sir".
"Yes, I do" ,slowly folding his arms together, he gazed up at the descending numbers.
"But, the business day is over, right?", those blue eyes looked towards the black and white floor tiles.
Nonchalantly adjusting tie, Donovan dipped into another stream, "Absolutely", leaving a whisper into her gold bobbled ear. From that moment on, his title of vice president would only be apt for the former word.
Power shifted, as did she. Tender hip brushed against his, as a single word drifted, "Location?"
Blonde hair turning silver, this man gave a subtle smile to her. Like so many times before, Douglas knew that seductive tournament was about to begin, "My choice?"
"Make it soon, sir", coral colored, manicured nails drifted against a cloaked crotch, feeling the slithery beast coming to life, "Before it's too late".