9/11 Short Stories

“Not. I mean no. I’m stuck,” she replied in a breathy voice. He laughed low and rough, warm puffs of his breath hitting her as his hands groped the waist of the skirt again. A few tugs, and it slid down her body to the floor. His blue eyes staring up at her, while her skirt lay puddled in a soft heap on the floor. She struggled to control her breathing.

“You’re very different.” He spoke in a quiet voice his face eye level with her waist. Her hair fluttered with her nodding head, her lips smashed together knowing she should protest or run or scream, but her body was frozen. The air around them felt very thick, like everything was in slow motion.

“I know,” she replied trying to think of something, anything else to say. There were many women her age she supposed who knew exactly how to extricate themselves from a situation like this–she clearly was not one of them. Should she grab her skirt, do something to cover herself. Run for the bathroom. But, she should not be standing in front of this man, only wearing a black thong and a tank. Silent, his eyes wandered slowly up to her breasts and then over her face, she was still frozen, unable to move.

His other hand glided down her shoulder to her hand and she thought she might faint. Then he held his hand up, holding up her hand with his, her hand-holding Adam’s pen with a death