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Sep. 29th, 2009 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tinpraEven So
Not pretending to anything other than turn around and go back the way she had come, Contessa went rifling around in her weekender for the stiletto heels she had dared to bring with her to New Orleans. She'd worn very sensible (very her) low-heeled pumps during her business meeting with St. Mark, but had risked wearing the three-inch stilettos for the date.
She had no qualms sacrificing them in the name of bludgeoning a potential attacker. Why name them after a weapon, after all? Besides, they pinched her toes.
Contessa's steps became more self-assured as her hand closed over a pointed toe. If she'd been coming from any place other than an airport, she would have had her pepper spray on her. When in trouble, she thought, remembering her self-defense lessons, use whatever's handy.
And avoid trouble by staying out of narrow side-streets, she added crossly. Lucky breaks didn't happen twice in a lifetime, she reminded herself. She couldn't count on a midnight-voiced rescuer to save her every time she made a stupid, potentially life-threatening, decision.
The street began to brighten as Contessa approached the main intersection. Her shoulders slumped with anticipated relief. She lost the death-grip on her shoes. Her steps became quicker, lighter, and she was already mapping an alternate route home.
A weird sound seemed to fill the still-dark spaces around her. Contessa ignored it. But it grew. Bubbled up from the storm drains. Drifted down from rooftops. Danced over fire escapes. And then it broke open, crashing like a wave of glee. Maniacal, hysterical glee.
Laughter. The side-street filled with laughter.
Not pretending to anything other than turn around and go back the way she had come, Contessa went rifling around in her weekender for the stiletto heels she had dared to bring with her to New Orleans. She'd worn very sensible (very her) low-heeled pumps during her business meeting with St. Mark, but had risked wearing the three-inch stilettos for the date.
She had no qualms sacrificing them in the name of bludgeoning a potential attacker. Why name them after a weapon, after all? Besides, they pinched her toes.
Contessa's steps became more self-assured as her hand closed over a pointed toe. If she'd been coming from any place other than an airport, she would have had her pepper spray on her. When in trouble, she thought, remembering her self-defense lessons, use whatever's handy.
And avoid trouble by staying out of narrow side-streets, she added crossly. Lucky breaks didn't happen twice in a lifetime, she reminded herself. She couldn't count on a midnight-voiced rescuer to save her every time she made a stupid, potentially life-threatening, decision.
The street began to brighten as Contessa approached the main intersection. Her shoulders slumped with anticipated relief. She lost the death-grip on her shoes. Her steps became quicker, lighter, and she was already mapping an alternate route home.
A weird sound seemed to fill the still-dark spaces around her. Contessa ignored it. But it grew. Bubbled up from the storm drains. Drifted down from rooftops. Danced over fire escapes. And then it broke open, crashing like a wave of glee. Maniacal, hysterical glee.
Laughter. The side-street filled with laughter.