- Polite Fictions

Charlie considered her options. They were, admittedly, few. Slick stood near her, seemingly useless. He raised a hand to touch a cheek recently reddened by Charlie's own smack then lowered it slowly.

There was a time and a place for everything and this was neither the time nor place for anything Slick had in mind. Charlie was certain of that, she only hoped her simple yet eloquent communication explained the idea succinctly enough.

She moved her body, feeling it, keeping only her arm, heavy with gun to Euri's head, still. Everything else she flexed quickly, expressing herself in tense motion.

Her elbow flexed with the memory of her first kiss and its aftermath, her toes curled and uncurled with the ghosts of beaches between them, her knees tensed and relaxed remembering that night in Ohio. Her free hand, its skin alive with the touch of Slick's face, curled as if once more kneading her first lump of dough. Every line of Charlie's body spoke of her past while preparing to secure her future.

Enough of this shit, she told herself and then stopped. Slick was, what was Slick doing? He was letting his mind drift, looking at the shotgun he carried with a faraway look. Come on, Slick, Charlie cursed at him mentally, get in the game. But Slick was having none of it. Her own distraction at his distraction was getting dangerous, she knew. Fuck him, then, she decided. She could handle this herself. Maybe.

No. Maybe was what got you killed. Life handed Charlie a bag of lemons and she decided to hand them back wrapped in a towel. Right to the gut. Like mobsters did, she thought. Fuck, no, stop letting your mind drift, she railed, before you're as lost as Slick. Focus.

Someone started to giggle. Highly inappropriate, Charlie decided. Then she realized she was the one making the noise. Well, fuck.