Wardrobe

Subbed on 10/5/2009 to Abjective -- Rejected on 10/6/2009 Note:

Thanks for sending this along. Unfortunately I am going to pass on it.

Subbed on 10/6/2009 to Wigleaf --

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Wardrobe

Up she stood from the stool next to mine then danced her way to the jukebox. Under the lancing lights, like oil slicking a driveway, the iridescent blue spots of her butterfly skirt continuously writhed in shape and hue.

She spun tight circles when the song she'd selected -- something by Elton John -- began to play. Teetering on fresh hooves, she returned to the bar, smiling, and sat beside me.

When she leaned for her drink, her left hand rode up the sweat-slicked skin of her midriff to blanket the amphibious webbed feet that concealed her nipples.

"You're amazing," I said.

She threw her head back to laugh and the garden snakes circling her neck twined tighter; the spotted wings of the ladybugs on her lobes shuddered.

Drink and conversation brought confidence and courage. I touched her hips, felt her skirt shiver. "I wish you were wearing parts of me," I said.

She drew back in her stool, squinting her eyes. I tried unsuccessfully to keep my nostrils from flaring and steaming.

But I knew. I knew exactly what she was doing.

She was sizing me up, studying the squareness of my shoulders, counting the points on my
antlers.

***

Rewrited

Wardrobe

Up she stood from the stool next to mine then danced her way across the bar's wooden floor to where the jukebox squatted in the corner. Under the spoking neon lights the iridescent blue spots on the wings of her butterfly skirt, like oil slicking the sea's surface, continuously writhed in shape and hue.

When the song she'd selected -- something by Elton John -- began to play, she spun tight circles, when the song she'd selected -- something by Elton John -- began to play. Teetering on her heels, she returned to the bar, smiling, and sat beside me.

When she leaned for her drink, her left hand rode up the sweat-slicked skin of her midriff to blanket the webbed feet of the croaking frogs that concealed her nipples.

"Can't have those hop away," I said.

She threw her head back to laugh and the garden snakes circling her neck twined tighter; the spotted wings of the ladybugs on her earlobes shuddered.

Drink and conversation brought confidence and courage. I placed a hand on her hips, felt her skirt shiver under my palm. "So what does a guy have to do to become a part of your wardrobe?" I whispered.

She drew back in her stool, squinting her feral eyes. I tried unsuccessfully to keep my nostrils from flaring. But I knew. I knew exactly what she was doing.

She was sizing me up, studying the squareness of my shoulders, counting the points on my antlers.