Today
would have been Elvis Presley’s 85th birthday. After all
that time, the King still holds our imagination and inspires our
fantasies. Here’s a bit of flash fiction in his honor.
Return
of the King
By
Lisabet Sarai
“Why
so sad, little lady?”
That
voice. Sable velvet, liquid sunshine, peach-blossom honey flowing
sweet and slow through my tired limbs. I knew that voice.
I
glanced up from the dregs of my fourth double bourbon. He perched
beside me – lean thighs, cowboy boots, black pompadour. Dark lashes
framed heavy-lidded eyes. His pouty lips curved into a kind smile.
“Some
people see pink elephants.” I shook my head. The room spun. “Me?
Dead rock and roll idols.”
Dead
and gone. Tears blurred my already wavering vision. Everything good
passes away.
“Hey,
don’t cry!” His fingertips grazed my cheek. He raised my face to
his. I could drown in those soulful eyes. “It’s a new year, a new
decade. Let me buy you a drink. Cheer you up.”
“I
don’t need—” I began.
He
shifted on his stool, those famous hips swiveling. “Jack? Couple of
root beers, please.”
“You
need a bit of lovin’, pretty lady.” He leaned closer, till those
boyish lips brushed mine. I smelled mint on his breath.
Heat
rippled through me. I was moist as a Memphis night. I was twenty two
instead of sixty.
“C’mon,
baby.” Who could resist that voice? “My truck’s outside.”
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