Author's note:
The story is part of Literotica's unofficial tag team competition. Eighteen of Literotica's authors have accepted the challenge of being randomly paired with a partner to co-author a story under the pen name "The_Odd_Couplings" The pairings have remained anonymous and the true authors of this story will be revealed in the comments section one week from today.
Disclaimer:
Because part of the fun of this challenge is the secrecy of the partners I would like to ask that readers and fellow authors alike refrain from posting their guesses in the comments section as we would like the scoring to be as fair as possible.
* * * * *
She walked down the street, quietly making sure that no eyes lingered on her. There was nothing conspicuous about her appearance.
"Crap," said Jordan, deleting the page.
She walked down the street, her hips swaying in rhythm with her step. Faces in the crowd threw her the occasional second glance before continuing towards their destination. She seemed not to notice anyone else.
"Select all and delete."
She walked down the empty street, wondering what happened to the usual throng that she met at this time. Her sharp eyes went to the far end where she saw a solitary man, leaning against a lamp post and lighting a cigarette.
His hands went to the most used keys and Jordan was once again staring at an empty page.
She walked down the street, flashing a broad smile at any who took the pain to look in her direction. There was an infectious happiness in that smile that could momentarily gladden any random passerby. A lively enthusiasm bubbled in her every step. She was more effervescent than...
"Champagne?" completed Jordan mentally. "This is getting ridiculous."
Once more, his work was wiped out of existence by the unfeeling delete key. He took a break and leaned back on his ratty old chair. The dim glow from his ancient laptop was the only illumination in the room. His eyes traveled across the length and breadth of his accommodation, noting every crack in the wall or missing patch of plaster. His furniture was in a similar state of senile decay.
Shaking himself awake, he turned to his keyboard once more.
She walked down the street, unable to come to terms with her choice. She was walking away from the life she had longed for since she knew how to want and the life that had come in a whirlwind dream and swept her off her feet. Every footstep carried the weight of her indecision, vacillating between the secure certainty that she left behind her to the passionate adventure lying ahead.
Jordan took a moment to study his paragraph again. There was a certain artistry in the words for sure, but something was missing. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Cursing quietly, he erased the page for the umpteenth time and set his laptop to hibernate.
There is something unnaturally sad about a writer struggling to write. One who loves words like himself should not have to struggle so much to create them. The story was mapped out so beautifully in his head, but the words would not coalesce.
He looked out and saw the grime covered Bronx around him. It looked nothing like his small town. He had packed his entire life into one suitcase and come to New York to be a writer, a life long dream of his. Sadly, his dream looked no closer to reality than when he boarded the bus.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, looking at the time. His bartending shift down the street was about to begin. His futile attempt at the perfect opening paragraph made him lose track of time.
He grabbed his jacket and ran down the street towards the sole source of his rent. His mind was still firmly on the novel playing out beautifully in his mind's eye. If only it could translate so well onto his screen.
Jordan closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for a muse. Maybe Fate could be so kind as to have her come to the bar. Something, anything to inspire the words out of him.
* * * * *
Jasmine Hunter, Jaz as she liked to be called, sat at the gleaming bar at Park Billiards in the Bronx. Not far from her left hand sat her hand-crafted leather pool case. She finished her vodka martini and munched on one of the four olives she had ordered in the drink. The bartender, Jordan, glanced up as her stomach rumbled in complaint. Jaz was hungry.
A full ride academic scholar at Fordham, studying for her Masters in Education, an ME, she had no trouble passing the complicated and stringent academic requirements. She had always had As. She cared intensely, she tried hard. But Jasmine did not have to. Academics came to her as naturally as, well as eating, which Jaz had not done for the third day now.
She glanced around the half-crowded sports bar, seeking an easy mark. "God I hope I don't have to sell Sting", she thought, laying her left hand protectively on the fine hand-tooled leather pool case o the bar beside her. Inside the case was a $1500 Mucci pool cue with the magnificent peacock emblazoned along the haft. After Jasmine had seen the first version of The Hobbit, she had whimsically referred to her cue at the time as 'Sting' Bilbo's famous sword that glowed when goblins were near.
"Maybe some good looking guy would offer to buy me a drink," she thought."I don't need the drink, but maybe I could up the ante to a Philly cheese steak sandwich." Merely saying the words in her mind started her mouth watering.
"Jordan," she called, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the different sports events currently showing on the Park's eight big screens.
"Another one, Jaz?" he called back over the din;
"Please," she answered. "Don't forget.. . . "
"I know, I know, four olives, right?"
"You got it Jordan, thanks."
Jordan turned his back and fussed with something behind the bar. He reached to yank a bag of Ruffles from the overhead rack, tore open the bag and dumped the contents in a basket. He brought over the drink, casually placed the basket of chips near Jasmine's right hand. He studiously avoided looking at the chips as he took the last of $2.75 of Jasmine's money for the drink, turned self-consciously away and fled to the other end of the bar where a very loud, drunk patron was hollering for service. Jordan knew that the girl had no money, but could not legally give her the chips unless he paid for them. He would have to pay anyway, since the bar required his till be even at night's end, But he had no desire to provide charity to Jaz, or to hint in any way that he pitied her.
Jasmine sat up straight as two men in their mid twenties ambled cockily in, pool cue cases in hand. A slight smile etched her thin lips and her fingers crabbed at her case. Her deep blue eyes narrowed like those of a leopard.
"Easy Jaz," she told herself, "Easy. Not too soon, let them have a few drinks first. Quiet, she said to her grumbling belly. Be patient. Looks like eats are in the way." She swiveled her bar stool to face the two men, wriggling her tiny butt to make her short skirt hike up a bit, parting her thighs very slightly.
She sat nursing her half-price martini, slowly munching each olive, while the two men played. They seemed fairly well matched to one another, but no real match for her. She was going to have to hold back a bit. While she waited for the pickings to ripen, she checked out the two guy's wardrobe. 'Slow stick' as she named one of the men, was clad in designer jeans and Izod golf shirt of lemon yellow, but had a Rolex on his wrist.
"Fast Eddie, " as she chose to christen the other, had just slipped off his pearl gray Armani jacket, exposing a slick expensive Kelly green dress shirt bearing what looked like solid gold cufflinks and tie bar. A sea foam spray of blond chest hair overflowed the top three buttons of the shirt.
"Jordan, she called softly. The bartender slid over.
"Another?" he asked.
"Oh god no,"she answered, "you'd have to carry me out of here. What I need is pool token. Tonight's free, right Jordan?"
