Big City – Short Fiction

Big City, oil painting by Kathleen Youngquist

The air had a bite to it, a slapping sting to her fevered skin, as they exited the crowded jazz club into the misty night. The smell of sweating bodies became the scent of asphalt, and steam rose from the darkened street, lit by streams of light pouring from an audience of lampposts. The blaring trumpets faded as the doors shut, replaced by a symphony of car horns and sirens. And still they swung, his hand a firm anchor to hers as he spun her wide then clutched her close, the damp fabric of her dress clinging to her body like leaves on a rain-soaked windowpane. His hand moved to her back, and when she looked up, she caught the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the tilted nature of his smile, and the hint of his intent which complemented her racing heart. Her breath met his in thick clouds between the two of them, their chests rising and falling, their gaze unwavering, the city whirling around them. And then he swung her wide again, spinning her into the night as the car horns played on, their feet stomped the ground, and their laughter trilled like trombones and saxophones above the rhythm of the night. 

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