‘So, how long have you been friends?’ I say.
Chloe sits across from me at the table – I’ve accidentally brushed her knee three times already and her close proximity makes me feel small and hot. She’s around five eight, hair a chestnut waterfall running into the chasm of her cleavage. Any woman’s worst nightmare … and my new bloke’s best friend.
She shifts the flow of hair from her bust to her shoulder. ‘Oh, forever. Since uni. Right, Ben?’
‘Yeah,’ says Ben. ‘We were in the same shared house.’
He flicks her a look, as if a little secret’s tucked away behind his warm brown eyes.
‘Great,’ I say, draining my pint.
I should have worn that tight skirt and heels instead of the jeans with the paint stain on the thigh. Should have ordered a gin rather than swigging Guinness. I have a cleavage somewhere, but it’s packed away under a Fair Isle jumper because how was I to know I’d be needing it tonight?
‘Yes,’ says Chloe. She sucks a lemon slice, tearing at the flesh with perfect teeth before saying, ‘Just before we started going out, wasn’t it love?’
Me and Chloe are going to get on like a house on fire.
Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Use the picture as a springboard for your fiction. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
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