One Night Strangers


Rebecca Dimyan

Her mornings were invariably vulgar: the stale smell of chardonnay, shadows of events tangled in her mind like post-coital bedsheets and the aftertaste of a stranger’s kiss. She knew that the colorful collection of discarded lovers she had amassed was neither socially acceptable nor healthy, even as indifference prevented her from taking any measures to curb her behavior. Turning her face from the dank pillow, at first she scarcely took notice of the man snoring beside her. He was just a body to her; the contours of a masculine frame draped abstractly, contorted limbs that likely would have given Picasso a hard-on: head concealed beneath the pillow, left arm bent at the elbow, hand lolling like a marionette’s. The early-morning sun circumvented the blinds and illuminated the stranger’s hand. She noticed that a curious web of alabaster scars marred his knuckles. I wonder if we talked about that last night.

She sat up and ran her fingers through her matted dark hair. Carefully, so as not to disturb Stranger Q, she peeked over the edge of the bed in search of her black French panties. Or her lacy turquoise thong – she couldn’t quite remember which pair she was wearing the night before. She sifted one-handed through sundry expired pleasures; several movie tickets, a McDonalds bag, and a couple of ripped condom wrappers, no sign of any panties. Goddamn it!

Stranger Q was stirring.

Hastily, she pulled on her washed out blue jeans, sans underwear.

“Morning, Evie. Wow. N-n-n-nice hair.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey. Morning. Oh. Uh. Thanks.” She paused, her arm caught in the sleeve of her black satin blouse. She could feel her cheeks blazing. Morning sex hair, thanks for noticing. Wait. What’s with the stutter?

“Anyway, d-d-did you sleep OK?” Intense brown eyes glanced at her nervously from the bed, holding her in his sight for a few seconds before looking away.

Awesome. I picked up Porky Pig. Well, he isn’t short or portly.

Stranger Q was a large, broad-shouldered man. Waves of russet hair collected unevenly, concentrating towards the right side of a wide forehead. A lighter shade of russet hugged the curve of his chin and followed the jawline. A tattoo branded his left bicep; it read: Die without perishing and your life will endure. He was not unattractive.

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4 Responses to “


  1. Ruth Chambers 19 July 2011 at 6:42 pm #

    Great piece. You have a new fan! I want to read everything you’ve written.

  2. Gabi Coatsworth 19 July 2011 at 7:40 pm #

    I love your sense of humor! I won’t easily forget the lavender bridesmaid, oldest living or not. I hope you write more pieces like this one.

  3. Helen Rafferty 21 July 2011 at 2:53 pm #

    Many thanks for the kind words – I will be posting the address of my new blog here very soon & I hope you’ll visit me there!

  4. Helen Rafferty 21 July 2011 at 4:37 pm #

    Hello again,
    For anyone who enjoys my stories, I hope you will also visit my brand new blog at
    All the best,

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