Tommy stood in the crowd of early morning office workers, waiting impatiently for the elevator to reach the ground floor. All eyes but his were staring at the overhead display announcing the floors. They were in a hurry. He wasn't.
What writer enjoyed being called to his or her publishers office?
The shapely brunette next to him, glanced up at him and said, "Fucking caterpillar," then looked back up as the floor number lit up every minute or so. He leaned down and replied, "Excuse me?"
"Caterpillar..the elevator...slow as a caterpillar, then dragged on her cigarette and stepped forward to poke it in the chrome ashtray filled with sand that was attached to the wall, then stepped back.
He glanced up at the display and replied, "Won't be long now...it's on 11. To which she replied , "That's ten minutes. Then I have to go to 84, and that's another twenty minutes. I'm already running late." Then lit another Marlboro Light.
"There's always the stairs." He said smiling.
"84 floors? Do I look like a health nut to you?"
His eyes traveled up and down her slender body. Shapely legs, and ironing board flat stomach, and a nice ass.
A soft pleated blouse struggled to hide her pointed tits, as it tucked into a very tight, very short, blue skirt. "You look fit."
She looked up at him, as she dragged hard on her cigarette, "Fit? hah, that's a good one. I may look fit, but I chain smoke, drink too much, eat junk food, and keep late hours." Another drag, slowly filled her lungs.
"My kind of woman." He glanced again at the display, as 4 flickered on the aluminum plate.
She leaned to him,"Ivy."
The lobby was noisy, so he looked down,"What?"
"IVY. My name is Ivy. You know, as in..."
"Poison Ivy? I got it. I'm Tommy."
"You don't look like a Tommy. I figured you for a Harrison, or Gabriel. Maybe something like Carter. I didn't expect a kids name."
"I am a kid. Tommy fits me like a glove. Those names you mentioned, sound sorta stodgy, dignified. Sorry to disappoint you."
She dragged again, sending curls of smoke from her perfect red lips. "Oh, I'm not disappointed. Where are you going, Tommy?"
"92...meeting with my publisher."
"So, you're an author?" She asked, with her brows raised. He shook his head, "I'm a story teller."
"What kind of stories do you tell?"
"Mostly bad ones." Tommy was never boastful, and always downplayed his movie star looks and genius IQ. Naturally, most women fiound totally disarming. Ivy was beginning to see that.
"I meant your genre, not your opinion on the quality."
"Dirty books? My, my! You get more interesting by the minute." She glanced at the display. It still read 4.
"Short stories actually. I don't seem to have the patience to write a whole novel."
She exhaled through her nose, "It's not that you don't have the patience Tommy. You like telling your stories in snippets, pieces. A long story bores you , so you think it will bore the readers, too. You like it fast, you like it spontaneous, and you like to get to the fucking point. Now, that's MY kind of man. Marry me?"
"Busy today. How about tomorrow?"
"You know baby, if you weren't such a player, I'd be really tempted to take you up, on it...today or tomorrow."
"What makes you think I'm a player?"
She French inhaled, "I know who you are now. I've read most of your stories on line. You're Tommy Castle."
"Your stories? Are they based on real life situations. Are the women all real?"
"Which one did you actually marry? You did have a few to choose from." Ivy stepped to put out her cigarette, and stepped back.
"None of them. I'm not married."
"Good. Now, since real life inspires your stories, how about I help you out"
"I can always use a good story line. Got one in mind?"
The elevator doors opened.
She grabbed his hand, "Matter of fact. ...I do." Then dragged him inside, as dozens more crammed in.