Our own Wednesday morning moonbeam, Rochelle, in conjunction with Roger Bulot has set the street carnival stage for the final February Friday Fictioneers frolic with ethnic food, fun, and dancing in the street. Click on Roger’s contributed picture for a magic carpet ride over to play where growing older does not require growing up and purple is plentiful.
My mundane mindless myth meanders about the crowd in the 100 worried words below the prompt photo.
Genre: Bazaar Fiction
Title: American Men
Word Count: 100
“There. Blue baseball cap, Ray-Bans, running shoes. Passing the Greek Jewish food. Go!”
She approached. “Hello, mark. Remember me?”
He lowered his shades and made eye contact, then noticing her cleavage, “Ah, I’m afraid I, um, ah…”
She touched his bare arm. “I’m, Chloé. Last June in Paris?”
Embarrassed, he felt blood and sense drop from his brain to his groin. He felt a nudge from behind. He turned to look. When he turned back, she was gone, as was his wallet, watch, and even his sunglasses.
He thought, I should have known at the lower-case mark. My name’s Bill.
Look both ways on crowded streets.
Mind the gaps of décolletage and keep your eye on the ball.