MOXIE

Short story for Creative Writing Class. 1k.

He only still smoked because Midge, the receptionist at his office, had once told him that it made him look mysterious and sexy. That and the fact that everyone smokes. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he loathed the taste. He’d go after work with the boys to the bar and take too long with pulling out his cigarettes. He’d offer them out and give a light to anyone who needed one. He waited until he absolutely had to smoke. He spent at least a whole minute tapping the tip of his smoke against his case, beating out the melody of the playing jazz, usually in double time. The only time he really breathed in the smoke was to light it. 

He had a deal with the bartender too. He’d water down his drinks since he hated the taste of whiskey. Once, about five months ago, he tried to order just a water and Frankie made fun of him for almost a month, calling him a fairy and things like that. He’d pay extra at the end of the night, but the boys would watch him down three whiskeys with no problem. Frankie started calling him “Moxie” after that and he liked how nicely it rang in his ears. 

They all knew he was a pushover at work; Mr. Jones was a man was a man he’d never want to upset. Frankie and the boys said he was a pansy and that “Jones would bend him over and have his way with him”, but they quickly labelled him as “the man” after seeing how large his Christmas bonus was. He’d paid for all their drinks that Friday, to Frankie’s request, but he’d skipped his own. 

“Got a date,” he explained when the boys drunkenly swarmed him, inquiring with beer heavy breath. They all whistled and clapped him on the back. Frankie ruffled his hair and Benny smooched his cheek. 

“Get a pair of her knickers and I’ll pay for your drinks for a month, Moxie.” 

Frankie signed a contract on the back of a bar napkin, their signatures smudged by spilled beer. 

The late January air was almost too cool against his heated skin. He placed his hat on his head with practiced ease. He knew what angles looked the best on his head without looking in the mirror. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked into the high collar of his thick coat. The walk home was usually just over twenty minutes, but the chill made him hurry. 

He pulled his keys out on the step of the door to the hallway of his apartment, fumbling with numb fingers to get inside. He shut the door with some difficulty, the winter wind whining with protest as he shoved it out. He opened his wallet and searched through the coin pouch, sighing at the familiar feel of a cold golden band against his finger tips. He slipped it onto his left hand, settling it into place. He rushed up the stairs, practically leaping up every other step at the prospect of warmth and comfort. 

The door opened and he was greeted by a melodic meow and the enticing smell of his favorite stew. He called out a greeting, stopping to pet the black furball that had emerged from the shadows to chirp at his feet. He shed his coat, wet from the melting snowflakes, and hooked it on the coat stand by the door. 

“Damn that smells good, babe,” he said, slipping his arms around his lover’s waist. He kissed his cheek, the stubble rasping against his lips. He turned up the volume knob on the radio, letting his hips sway to the crooning of Frank Sinatra-- his favorite-- as he danced over to the refrigerator, grabbing two beers and popping them open with a psst-ahh. 

“How was Frankie tonight?” his lover stirred the pot but turned his head in question. 

“Drunk as always,” he got a laugh for that, “Told him I had a date tonight and he promised to buy my drinks for a month if I brought back knickers.”

The sweet and familiar laugh of his lover mingled with the melody of Sinatra and it wasn’t the beer that made Steve feel warm and happy. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mhm,” he said, walking back up to hold his lover in his arms again, “Thought you’d get a kick out of that one, darling.”

“I think your sister still has some of her clothing here in your bedroom from her visit last weekend if you wanna check that.”

Steve pondered it. He shrugged and let his arms fall to his sides. Their cat, Tallulah, followed him, nearly on his heels, as he checked his bedroom. Sure enough, his sister’s suitcase was leaning against the dresser and her nightgowns and dresses hung in the closet. He found the one bralette that she had ripped--flimsy lace, she had claimed--and brought for Steve or Dean to try and repair. He slipped it into his briefcase and placed it in the room that him and Dean shared so he wouldn’t forget it on Monday morning. 

He’d have to thank his sister for more than just lending him her underwear. 

Steve entered the kitchen just as his love was setting a plate down with some stew for Tallulah to munch on, her mews of approval making him smile. He looked at his lover and his lover looked at him, happiness swirling in their eyes. Dean passed Steve a full plate of steaming stew and placed a buttery biscuit on the corner of his plate. Dean leaned forward and placed a soft and gentle kiss on Steve’s lips. 

“Happy Anniversary, my love.”