Writing Smoke And Oranges

[Lady Asphyxia]

[size=1]An idea I had, and wrote tonight. So far unedited, and I haven't re-read it, but nonetheless, I decided to post it up here. [And Mnemolth, it's almost a thousand words. I hope it isn't too short for you.]


[b]Smoke and Oranges[/b]

The lady took a puff of her cigarette, then let it out in a constant stream that seemed to never end. To me, the aura of smoke just added to my impression of her...she was a floozy, to use an old-fashioned word.

"You're in a lot of trouble."

Her hair was up in a cluster of gelled curls, a headband holding it all in place. She was wearing a trench coat -- underneath that, I'd no idea. Her lips were full and pouty -- a look only enhanced by the scarlet lipstick kissing her mouth.

All in all, she looked like a cheap imitation of one of the 1940's mystery movies. One who'd gotten their hairstyles mixed up -- it was from the 1920's.

"But...sir..." She whispered in her obviously fake southern belle accent. "I've only killed one man my entire life -- and he deserved it. Why, in this day and age, I'm practically a saint!" All of this was said in a breathy whisper.

She smelled of oranges, but I knew more than anything the treachery of oranges. Their sweet taste that lured you in, then -- just as you were taking a bite -- squirted citric juice in your eye. And this woman was [i]just[/i] as treacherous. The snake.

And she knew it. Her eyes were staring at me, waiting for me to respond. Respond to her comment that she was 'practically a saint'? Highly unlikely, unless I was to comment on the fact that most [i]normal[/i] people didn't kill their ex-husbands with a pistol, upon finding out he'd won the house.

"Look, madam. It says here that, among other things, you were born in Australia. I highly doubt that you were on the Mississippi at any point of your life. So I beg of you, cut the ********."

It seemed that her temper had cracked at that remark. Her hands hit the table, and it shuddered under her force. Just like citric acid...

"Look, buster," she said in a voice as fierce as any New Yorker. "I did not just spend $6,000 learning to speak the way I want to be told that it [i]isn't correct[/i], so I'll speak however I'd damned care to."

All of a sudden, my eye started to sting. I'd never liked oranges. Foul, disgusting things. There was actually a story about a man who thought he was blind, but actually had an orange over his eye. Of course, the story was Irish. I'd always liked the Irish.

I leaned back in my chair and looked over at the two-way mirror, surreptitiously viewing myself. Despite getting on in years, I had one of those 'timeless' bodies -- the kind that couldn't show age.

Except, of course...I tilted my head and searched for a bald spot. None. I was still the handsome spunk the women had admired twenty years ago.

Sure, I was getting on in years, but it wasn't a potbelly -- it was proof that I looked after myself. I eat red meat for dinner [sometimes salad] and I get all the exercise I need at work. Besides, I don't smoke. And everyone knows that drinking in proportion is good for you. Like pregnant ladies drinking port...without the pain of childbirth.

"So, once again..." I trailed off, having lost my train of thought as I watched her slim fingers flick the ash off her cigarette.

The woman sneered and uttered the worst detective cliché in the book -- "Where were you on the night of the fourth?" It seemed to me that the Orange had dropped her enticing facade and started squirting her citric juice.

I sent her a derisive glance. "In case you cannot count, Miss, it's the 27th of July."

"In case you did not register, Sir, I was being sarcastic." She fiddled with the tie on her trench coat. "But, to answer the question you didn't ask, I was busy murdering my ex-husband with the gun I'd had planted there last week. Are we done yet?"

The woman was crazy. As crazy as they come. A total fruitcake. Of course, I'd never liked fruit. Too much like oranges. She was, however, extremely feminine, even without her Southern Belle accent. I adjusted myself, hitching the belt buckle so it wasn't digging into my stomach.

Maybe the femininity had something to do with the craziness. God knows, I'd lived with my wife for 22 years, and I still couldn't figure out why she got upset when I went out with the boys.

But to admit to murder? Any woman in these times should know that they could get off on a self-defence claim, an insanity claim, or even heat of the moment. But no, this Orange had straight out admitted that she'd cold-bloodedly murdered her husband. [i]Ex-[/i]husband.

"Is there any reason?"

"Yeah." She titled her head and pursed her scarlet lips. The hussy. "I wanted his money. And he annoyed me He chewed loudly."

"He chewed."

"Loudly." She corrected.

"I see."

"No, you don't." She said it in a sing-songy voice that made me want to strangle her. She sounded so smug. Like an...orange. Or grapefruits. Grapefruits were almost as bad as oranges. Taunting me...

She leaned forward; smiling with her hussy lips and once again took a puff of the cigarette. Seemed to me she was using it for effect. "Do you know what it's like to hate the person you were married to? To wish, everyday, that you hadn't spent 5 years of your ******* life on him? Well, I do. There's my motive," she smilingly told the recording device.

"Miss," I declared, glaring at her scarlet kissed lips. "I do believe you're insane."
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[marbar]

A very nice story. I quite enjoyed it. I liked the reference to oranges, original and rather effective. I lost the topic a bit, though, in the description of the detective.

Overall, good job, an excellent little story.

[Avaris]

good work, Katia. Lovely lovely.

But you already knew that didnt you.

X (Mwah.)

[Shinmaru]

Very nice. I liked the way you used the oranges as a metaphor to describe the woman's personality. Very surprising that I have not seen something like that before.

I also like that you gave this story the feel of a good, old-fashioned detective story while keeping the humor.

Keep up the great work!