Writing Voice

Writing Voice

The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers. The parking lot attendant had brought the car out and he was still holding the door open because Terry Lennox’s left foot was still dangling outside, as if he had forgotten he had one. He had a young-looking face but his hair was bone white. You could tell by his eyes that he was plastered to the hairline, but otherwise he looked like any other nice young guy in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint that exists for that purpose and for no other.

There was a girl beside him, blond and glamorous with an hour glass figure every inch of it pointing in the right direction. Giggling she tossed back her long golden hair before slipping her slender hand into Terry’s trouser pocket and jiggled his change. As her steel blue eyes sparkled I could see the dollar signs spinning in the dames head, she was excited that she gotten her hands on a poor dim rich smuck and she knew exactly what to do with him. She pulled out some change and leant over Terry pushing her cream chiffon dress firmly into his lap as she handed the attendant his tip with a wink then collected the forgotten leg and shut the car door.