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The Game

Published by Michael J. McDonald at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Michael J. McDonald

Image: Salvatore Vuono /

The Game

“Open your eyes.”

Ah, shit, this better not be that Tom Cruise dream again. It was a fair film, but there are some things a guy doesn’t want to have to explain to himself when he wakes up. It’s that kind of voice though, so sultry and docile yet bristling under its woollen coat with darts of impatience that just lets you know you better not make her repeat it. And it’s clearly a her. When there’s a woman in your ear at this time of the morning, it’s probably worth waking up for.

So I open my eyes, and I catch my breath, though to be more accurate my breath catches itself on the back of my throat and I feel as though I’m choking on a very, very long icicle. Brain’s still going like the clappers, though. Heart too. There’s something you don’t see every day. Unless you’re me. What a vision. The second most wanted woman in the world (the first being wanted for rather different pursuits and probably not one to get much sleep), posing in the sexiest doorframe in the world, wearing the luckiest shirt in the universe. Martians invented shirts, right? Who else would come up with a concept such as a loose shirt tail that did nothing of any use except either make you look stupid while it was out or fat when you tucked it in?

I could see the lower seam of her shirt tail in the opening between her parted thighs. And a small part of my brain decided six minutes was kind of a long time to stare at someone, so blurted out a response at last. “That’s my shirt!”

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