Opening Line Prompt #6

Do you find me shy yet? What does that even mean? I’ve drunk too much, that’s what that means. I shouldn’t have shotgunned those first two glasses of chardonnay. But I had to do something to curb the impulse to march across the room and claim your lips with mine. But you like shy women. They make you feel strong and in charge.

I long to teach you the liberation of being dominated. I know you’d like it. But I’m trying so hard to be what you want. So tonight, when I got ready, I slid on peach lipstick instead of cherry red, swirled my hair up into bun and fastened it with a spanking new, freshly sharpened #2 pencil. I hid my hot-assed body behind a bulky sweater, and my frank stare behind a pair of prescription-less, black-framed glasses.

I plan to allow you to make slow, sweet love to me, to teach me all of the parts of my body that I already know are erogenous. But you won’t even look at me.

Smokey Robinson is singing, “You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me” and I start to move. Who wouldn’t? I set down my third glass of chardonnay on our mutual friend’s coffee table and close my eyes, my hips taking control. I feel a hand at my waist and I open my eyes, hoping it’s you. It’s not, but he’s okay-looking and he’s actually touching me, so I close my eyes again and sink into his embrace.

Matt Nathanson takes over for Smokey and I change partners – still not you.

When Bill Withers starts singing Lean On Me, I break away from my partner, and head toward the kitchen. My ex-dancing partner lets me go and starts singing along. Before the kitchen door swings shut behind me, the entire room has joined it. I don’t blame them but I’m feeling hot and out of breath, so am unable to participate.

The kitchen is blissfully quiet. The sign of a good party is that everyone ends up in the kitchen but this party is just okay so far, so I have a moment to myself with the ugly parts of the hors d’oeuvres – the sour cream and hummus containers, the half-empty bags of those really tiny bread loaves.

I pull the bulky sweater up over my head. My glasses get caught in the fabric and then the pencil holding my hair in place is knocked loose. In a series of panicked movements, my man-catching costume is on the floor. I take in deep breaths of the cool, air and then kick the crumpled up sweater. I won’t put it back on, I vow. I’ll try for you some other night. I give up.

I grab a nearly empty bottle of chardonnay from the counter and take a swig. I hear the door to the kitchen swing open, and when I lower the bottle, I see you.

I’m leaning against the kitchen sink, in a black lace tank top that I’d hoped you see at some point tonight. My hair is tumbling freely down my shoulders and my back. Natural waves make playful grabs at my waist.

I’ve been talking to you in my head all night, and now I don’t know what to say.

Opening Line Prompt: https://www.plot-generator.org.uk/opening-line/

Opening Line Prompt #2

“The key to a healthy lifestyle is making people think you are dull.”

“Huh?” I look up from my half-empty, lukewarm glass of wine. I only drink red in front of work colleagues to make myself seem more classy but I am a Moscato girl at heart. With each reluctant sip, this stuff tastes more and more like the feet that stomped it.

“See? It’s working.” Clark raises up his glass of water, indicating that he wants to toast. I clink my glass against his. “You already think I’m dull as hell,” he says with a grin.

He’s right. I don’t even know his last name because I’ve called him ‘Clark Kent’ in my mind for the past two years. He’s good looking enough; he bears more than a passing resemblance to Christopher Reeve, but he is supernaturally boring. I don’t even know what he does at the company because every time he opens his mouth at a meeting, his words flow past me, over me, through me, but they don’t connect to any of the synapses in my brain.

“That’s not true, Clark,” I lie.

“My name is Clint,” he says.

“Shit.” My answer is muffled by my glass as I take another sip.

He’s not offended. He just grins. He holds his glass up again. It’s about three-quarters full. He even drinks water at boring rate. He leans toward me. “This is vodka,” he whispers.

“Bullshit.” This is my second glass of foot juice, and judging by the loosening of my potty-mouth filter, it should be my last. “Prove it,” I say, a tinge belligerence to my voice.

Clint and I are standing near a window, at the edge of the room, both avoiding human interaction like the plague – at least, we were. Clint shifts so that his back is briefly to the room so that he can pour some of his water into my wine. He shifts back, and I take a sip. Hngggghhkh…so the red feet are on fire – yep, that’s vodka, alright.

“Who are you?” I ask. “I’ve known you for two years –”

“Three,” Clint corrects with a laugh. “Do you need me to prove that, too?” he asks in response to the involuntary shake of my head.

I cough. “I’m so sor—”

He holds up a hand. “It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I want people to think I’m boring. To tune me out at meetings…” he grins at my flush of embarrassment.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Like I was saying earlier, it helps me avoid CrossFit and kale and whatever stupid crap people are overdoing at any given moment in time.” A grimace mars his suddenly much more interesting face. “These people don’t get to know me.”

“But I do?”

His gaze sears into mine, making me wonder how I’ve gone two – three – years, blind to his intensity. Heat blooms throughout my entire body. My grasp on my glass loosens, and he reaches out, his hand firm across the back of mine as he presses my fingers closed around the stem of the glass. He steps closer. “Do you want to?”

Opening Line Prompt from : https://www.plot-generator.org.uk/opening-line/