I hope this isn't too long-- if it is, please let me know and I will cut it.
New York, New York, 2007.
They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, but something about this particular March told me that the lion and the lamb were making mad, passionate love on the savannah, the days moving from unseasonable heat to freezing hailstorms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Of course, the weather didn't do anything for business. Today was cold, not as cold as it had been, but cold enough that Lady Liberty's nips were standing on end underneath that copper gown of hers.
So imagine my surprise when I was unexpectedly interrupted my morning perusal of Flickrbabes by a knock on my office door.
"Come on in," I answered, minimizing the pinups on my laptop screen. I removed my feet from my desk, smoothed down my shirt. Sure, we all do what we have to to keep up appearances.
But I realized that wasn't enough when I saw the doe-eyed dame who came dancing through my door.
"Mr. Smokeless?" she asked, her voice as smoky as my name wasn't. That's me. Sewerage K. Smokeless. And Johnny Cash thought he had it bad when they named him Sue.
The minute the gal walked into my office, I felt the temperature spike like the mercury was going to pop out of the thermometer.
They say there's something about motherhood that makes a woman more attractive, but I say it's widowhood. I don't know about the rest of you suckers out there, but seeing a pregnant belly never struck me as a great big neon "available" sign the way a little black dress and tearstained cheeks can do.
And this one, my friends, was all widow. And all legs. And those legs ended in pumps so shiny that, well, let's just say that what they say about black patent leather isn't entirely myth, why don't we?
But I'm getting off the subject. "Mr. Smokeless?" the lady asked, sniffing into a tissue that she held with nails lacquered so red that for a second I thought her nose was bleeding. "Mr. Smokeless, I have a problem, and they said you'd be the one to talk to. You can call me Fusie."
"Fusie?" I asked. I'd heard my share of slick nicknames, but this was a new one. "What's that short for, babe?"
And that dame gave me a look so cold I almost reached for my jacket. "Transfusion," she answered. "Transfusion Unrepentant."
I blinked. For once, somebody else had me beat on the name. "All right, Fusie," I agreed. Hell, there were worse nicknames you could get from Transfusion.