Prelude to the Banshees: what I have written so far

The couple were due to join some friends for cocktails and dinner at Le Cinq á Sept by seven or whatever, but a vicious disagreement with a pair of sheer pantyhose had made them so tardy that “fashionably late” was no longer passable; though Samantha and Michael were quite fashionable, do not be mistaken. At eight forty-two, the cinnamon mister and his recomposed lady stepped out high into the cold white evening dressed in Yohji Yamamoto and Marc Jacobs, respectively; their boot soles champed the virgin sugar snow, and Samantha smiled at the sound, an expression of pleasure not lost on her man. Michael adored her so, he regarded every detail.

He opened the passenger door of the humming Lexus. “Milady.”

Mmm, it’s warm inside.” She removed her gloves and rubbed her fair bare legs.

“Ought to be, Lady. Car’s been out of the garage and running for half an hour.” Michael leaned in over her, and tossed her leather clad notebook into the backseat.

“Thank you, Mr. Travis,” she said into his passing ear, flaring her nostrils to take in fully his spicy citrus scent.

“Always my pleasure, Ms. Manchester.” Then he winked, and blew her a kiss as he shut the door. Samantha watched him walk ‘round the front end to the driver’s side, a great fleeting shade in his black trench coat.

The dome light flashed, and a shade he was no more. “Let’s hit it. See if we can get there before nine.”

“Eight forty-six.” She freed a delicate sigh. “At least by now Rory has gotten the proposal out of the way. I know he wanted that moment for just the two of them.”

“In the case that Thomas declined.” Michael raised an eyebrow, “we may be on our way to a pity party.” He switched on the windscreen wipers.

“Jesus Christ, it’s snowing again? Didn’t I leave my umbrella in the car?”

Michael huffed—nearly. “Sit down, babe.”

But babe wouldn’t listen; she was unbuckled, and leaning far into the backseat. “I need my umbrella. The snow will mess up my hair.” Her chestnut mane, she wore loose, long side-swept fringe framing the right edge of her face.

“I love your hair all messed up. Especially when I’ve messed it up. Now sit down, please.” He stroked her shapely bottom, relishing the texture of her cherry blossom embroidered dress.

“Got it!” Samantha returned to her seat, duly triumphant. “Thomas did say yes, you know.”

Michael gave her thigh a squeeze; his fingers wanted to travel higher. “He’d be stupid if he didn’t.”

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