by Michael Seese
In my continuing quest for flash, somehow or other I learned of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition. I decided to give it a try. This week, we were asked write a 300-word story that opened with the line (more or less) "I'm not sure we have the same definition of safe." The setup in the first paragraph immediately came to mind, and I came up with "Safe Words."
I'm not sure that she and I had the same definition of “safe.” I saw it as an adjective. A synonym for “protected.” She, ever the literalist, preferred the noun. In the sense of “something you drop from a tall building onto someone's head.” Things with her were black and white like that.
At least until Technicolor came along, that is.
We met on the set. She was the star, of course. I was but a lowly “grip.” I wouldn't have expected her to give me the time of day. But somehow she found me in that bustling beehive. Once she locked her emerald orbs on me, I knew the die had been cast. Those glorious gams glided her over. Her come-on had all the fire of her hair.
“My grip has turned many a best boy into a man, honey-bunny.”
How could I resist a line like that?
“Um,” I managed, my inner Romeo failing me.
“Let's go,” she commanded.
We hopped over to her place, a nice spread in The Hills. I should say their place. I knew she was married. Everyone did. Everyone also knew it didn't matter. Still, I asked. The last thing I wanted was to be on the wrong end of an oversized hammer, or a seltzer spray. She said he was away, on location in Albuquerque, or somewhere.
“I hope you’re a better lover than a driver,” she purred, leading me to the bedroom.
It was, in a word… Quick.
Back down on the street, I contemplated her parting words.
“I'm not bad. I’m just drawn that way.”
As the plummeting metal cube eclipsed the sun, the cold, hard (literally) reality hit me.
My affair with the conniving, curvaceous Jessica Rabbit truly was a one-night stand.
When I was about halfway through it, I thought, Meh. But it's started to grow on me. How about you?