Shorty

I typically disdain writing short stories, which means I should practice more often. So I found a prompt, and here the results are.


I smile dreamily as I hear the vehicle at the stoplight. The sun gleams on burnt orange paint. The motor rumbles like a machinated feline, low, deep, waiting for its signal to pounce.

The light turns green. The Aston Martin sees the stretch of an empty block, and the lion roars.

A tingle of sheer joy shoots down my spine.

Darren’s head shoots up so hard his cap nearly topples backwards.

I push my arm in front of him. “No way, dude. This is mine.” He got the Camaro yesterday.

The Aston noses up to the curb. The driver steps out, impeccable in a Brooks Brother suit. He’s young, obviously loaded, and has the sterling looks of his vehicle. He glances at Darren. Then me, an eyebrow half-lifted.

I know. He’s never seen a female valet.

He tosses the keys to me, jerking his chin at the car. “Take good care of it.”

Translation: I’ll have your job with a snap of my fingers if you so much as scratch the paint.

I smile, savoring the feel of keys in my grip. “Trust me, it’s safe with me.” I step in, fire the engine, and the cat purrs.

Prompt 163