Hump Day Kick Start – Pedicure Edition

Hump Day Kick Start – for your muse, a writing picture prompt, or just a visual treat.

toenails

This could easily be a scene from my household.

Tell me about today’s prompt? Who is he? Why is he painting her toenails? Is he a boy toy willing to do anything for his cougar? Did he lose a bet and not only has to paint her toenails but watch a chick-flick marathon? Will she reward him for a job well done? What is the expression on his face? Does he wish he was playing poker with his buds? Calculating how to kill her? Wishing she would leave? Wishing she would stay? Is he lamenting her choice in color?

What’s your take? Tell me a tale or just caption the pic.

11 Responses to Hump Day Kick Start – Pedicure Edition

  1. Sarah Andre says:

    Mmmm. Holy yummy smokes. Will try to get back.

  2. pibarrington says:

    “Hmmm…I hope he isn’t wishing he could use this nail color for himself…”

    If this is too offensive I’ll take it off. Just thought it would be a funny caption!

  3. jbrayweber says:

    Sorry, cutie. Nail polish is too expensive to share. 😉

  4. Sarah Andre says:

    Her first mistake was opening the door. “What part of ‘I’m breaking up with you’ did you not understand?”
    “You said you wanted a guy who was more of a Beta,” he answered, and put on black nerdy glasses that only emphasized his long, black lashes. “Well, here I am.”
    “You’re not a Beta–”
    “I’ll show you. Let me in.”

    Her second mistake was letting him in, but honestly, those glasses! And his earnest expression, like her beautiful Alpha hottie was trying his darnedest to be soft and cuddly.

    He reached down and grabbed a bottle of wine before crossing the threshold. He showed her the label like a wine steward. “See? A French Burgundy instead of Coors.”
    She glanced at the foreign name as she closed the door and tightened the belt on her robe. It was symbolic–he’s seen her naked, spread and inflamed so many times. But no more. She was on a mission to find an intelligent, soft-spoken Beta.

    “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling this a Burgundy,” he said, “when it’s white wine, but I’ve been studying the French regions and Burgundy makes red and white- even though both are called Burgundy.” He blinked slowly and seriously. “And even though the word is a synonym for deep red. This is a white.”

    She folded her arms and frowned because the laugh was high up in her throat. “You’re not a Beta, Max. Take those silly glasses off.”

    He brushed past her into the kitchen. “Go on into the living room and turn on the Hallmark channel. I’ll be right there.” Luckily he’d turned his back reaching for wine glasses because her mouth fell open.

    “I…I don’t particularly feel like watching the Hallmark Channel right now.” She waited for him to suggest ESPN or ESPN 2 or 3 or 6,012. That’s all they ever did. Beers, bars, watching sports live or on TV and fantasy-effin-football. And look at those muscles shifting under the thin hoodie as he popped the cork? What Beta looked like they’d just walked off the set of a men’s cologne shoot? What Beta showed up with 2-day scruff and form fitting jeans?

    He turned around, holding goblets of, yes-white wine in each hand and regarded her seriously. “Then what would you like to do?”
    She shrugged helplessly. She’d hadn’t cried her eyes out for half a week to stand here fighting not to fall into his arms as he wooed her. “I’d like to be alone, Max.”
    He leaned against the kitchen doorway and cocked his head. “I can recite poetry.”
    “Does it start with an old lady from Nantucket?”
    “I’m pretty sure Lord Byron didn’t know anyone in Nantucket.”
    She swallowed hard. “Byron?”
    “George Gordon Byron? You know: she-walks-in-beauty-like-the-night Byron?” He gestured toward her living room “If you please.”

    Her third mistake was sitting down on her sofa and accepting the glass of wine. “To us,” he said and clinked her glass.

    “Max–” But he’d launched into the poem, his deep voice like soft suede, his resonance that of a man in awe. She melted against the back cushion adoring the lilting words and the immense effort he must have gone to to memorize something beside NFL stats. A part of her still expected him to burst out laughing, but no- he made it through, with his hand over his heart and genuine love on his face. Once silence fell it took all her strength to stare at him impassively. Her throat was tight with tears and her pulse thrummed erratically.

    “Did you like it?” he asked, and really seemed to care what her answer would be.

    “Y–yes. How could I not?”
    “See, all you had to do was tell me what you wanted from me.”
    But she hadn’t told him she needed a guy who knew about wine and poetry and cared what she wanted to do on a Sunday night, when she knew damn well the Patriots were playing. Just to be spiteful, just because he had the power to break her already crumbling heart, she suggested watching the game.

    “Absolutely not,” he said, and again, words like ‘absolutely not’ and ‘if you please’ were as strange as the darling glasses on his face. It was like he was still this hot Alpha hard-body on the outside but had turned into her dream-guy on the inside. “What were you about to do before I knocked?”

    She took a shuddering inhale and motioned to the roll of cotton and nail polish on the cocktail table. “Just have a quiet evening changing my toenail polish.”

    He nodded at the universal remote on the side table. “Why don’t you turn on the symphony or opera,” he said, reaching for the pedicure supplies.

    And her final mistake was doing just that.

  5. jbrayweber says:

    Ahh…that was sweet. I’m seeing a different side of you, Sarah. I’m also sensing you have a thing for hunks in glasses.

  6. jeff7salter says:

    Grabbing the TV remote, Sally sighed heavily. “I’m bored, Joe Tom.”
    Joe Tom smiled. “I have just the solution for that.”
    Picturing some stupid suggestion about the NASCAR race, she groaned, “Not cars driving fast in a circle.”
    “No,” he replied. “No cars.”
    “Then what?”
    “A special secret passed down by the ancients.”
    “Which ancients might that be?” she asked.
    “The old ones.”
    “Yeah, yeah. But Scandanavian? African? European? Far Eastern?”
    “Closer to home,” replied Joe Tom. “Mississippian.”
    “You mean somebody ancient in Mississippi knew what to do to cure my boredom?”
    “Sure,” he said smiling. “And I’ll show you.” At that, he begin massaging her toes.
    “Hmm. That’s nice, but is that it?”
    “Oh now, just the beginning.”
    “Where else does it go?”
    Another smile. “Actually, with several stops along the way, all the way up.”
    “And the ancients in Mississippi revealed this to you?”
    Joe Tom smiled as he finally reached a place behind her knees. “Just relax… this takes a long time.”

  7. jbrayweber says:

    Joe Tom? Really? Joe Tom? Well, I suppose it’s better than some of the other less masculine names you’ve used. At any rate, the ancient Mississippian knows their stuff. Gotta love….massages.

  8. jeff7salter says:

    LOL. I actually knew a guy named Joe Tom Trunzler and everybody called him Joe Tom.

  9. jbrayweber says:

    Was he from Mississippi?

  10. jeff7salter says:

    no, he was in central Louisiana. But I was born in MS.

  11. jbrayweber says:

    Close enough. 😀

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