They stumbled into the room and nearly tripped
over each other, giggling like college students. The sound shrilled through the
quiet hall, ultimately drawing attention of seated dinners. They must have been
in their late twenties, both of them. His hand twirled around her waist and she
squirmed excitedly, throwing her arm over his neck, hand dangling by his cheek.
He licked her fingers. She twittered. Twirled around each other, they staggered
forth. Their glistening eyes were locked on each other’s, even as they walked
between ornamented tables. There was dense disapproval in the faces of seated
dinners. The young couple didn’t care. He hastily picked her up, sweeping her
off the ground and onto his hands. Her flying legs connected with the nearest
table, sending it jittering on the floor, spilling wine glasses. He planted her
back on the carpet. And planted his lips on hers. Dinners gasped.
In My Room/Office/Studio
"A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right." - John K. Hutchen.
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