You can’t tell from the clothes whose inside until they look up, but there is just something about the way she’s fussing with the pleats of her skirt that makes me pause.

Paper frail hands unwrap a headscarf, which is then neatly folded and placed atop a clean stone. She’s a lady.

Steel blue eyes meet mine. I’ve been staring too long.

We smile.

Ever so tantalizingly she tugs up the skirt, as knees move apart.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. The all too familiar twitching has started.

On another day perhaps; today she’s not selling what I’m looking for.


In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 16 Nov 2018, based on a photo prompt by, voila, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

33 thoughts on “The Lady Under The Bridge

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