The soldier found a seat on the train next to a young woman. Instantly his eyes were addicted to her face. Even a blind man could see it. She was just plain durn beautiful. Her blue, wide-set eyes, danced on the stage of her sculptured cheekbones. He introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Randall Carbon.”
She smiled. “I’m Brophy Benson.”
“That’s an unusual name. What kind of name is Brophy?”
In a frequency between a purr and a drawl, she replied. “That’s Brophy as in trophy,” a teasing grin sashaying across her face. “Brophy is the only word in the English language that rhymes with trophy. I’m on my way back to the University of Virginia after Christmas vacation. Where are you going?”
“Home.” Carbon didn’t yet know it, but he had just run into the first southern girl that had grown up during the war under the influence of Rosie the Riveter. However, Brophy’s smug attitude and confident voice gave the hint that a change had taken place in young southern girls, while he had been in Germany fighting the war.
Extracting a pack of Black Horse cigarettes from her purse, she offered Randall a cigarette. He shook his head. She stopped her search for a match as he flicked his lighter, putting flame to her cigarette.
Blowing smoke towards the ceiling, she probed. “Where is home?”
“Pittsylvania County, Virginia.”
Brophy’s slow grin, her smug speech, her confident body language, all, told Randall that Brophy Benson knew she was just that, a trophy!
A porter came through the car announcing the dining car was now serving.
She smiled. “I’m hungry. Would you like something to eat?”
“Sounds good.”
The two made their way towards the dining car, the narrow aisle causing them to walk in single file with Randall bringing up the rear. As with all men following a curvy woman, Randall’s eyes gravitated to Brophy’s derrière. What a wonderful shaped derrière this Brophy Benson did possess, to go with her movie star legs. A faint smile waltzed across his face as he watched the delicious movement under the white skirt. Testosterone started saddling up the stallion for a ride to the south. Stuff! It was always causing a man’s hormones to make more trips south than Yankees going to Florida in the winter.
Randall surveyed the dining car room. There were about as many women as men seated in the room, most women with their husbands or male companions, with many women smoking. He mused. “I see lots of women are now smoking in public.”
Brophy glanced around the dining room. “Yeah, women really started smoking during the war, especially the ones that were Rosie the Riveters working in factories making war products.”
Randall nodded in understanding.
Brophy laughed. “Recently, the Richmond newspaper stated that the war has changed us southern girls and not for the better. The paper said that the south’s gentle southern belles are disappearing fast. Working alongside Rosie the Riveter has caused us southern girls to start smoking, cursing, being aggressive, having bad manners and being loose women. The paper stated, however unlike the abrasive twang of a Yankee female, at least when us southern girls used profanity, our honey slow speech smoothes away some of the rough edges.” She laughed. “The men and old ladies may as well get used to it. Whether they like it or not, this young generation of females are going to smoke their cigarettes.”
Randall noticed that Brophy didn’t seem at all embarrassed about the newspaper condemning her southern sisters. He grinned. “The paper wasn’t too complimentary to our southern girls, but they are right about the way Yankees talk. When a Yankee girl talks, it puts my teeth on edge like a knife scraping on a skillet.”
After eating, Brophy sat smoking a cigarette, with Randall drinking after dinner coffee. Surveying her over the rim of his coffee cup, “You shouldn’t smoke so many cigarettes. Don’t you know that cigarettes are bad for you?”
“You may be right, but I’m addicted to smoking. Smoking a good cigarette makes me high and relaxed at the same time.”
He replied in a casual note. “We are all addicted to something. Some people are addicted to nicotine, some to caffeine, some to alcohol, and some are addicted to other people.”
She quizzed. “What do you mean, addicted to other people?”
“Oh, you know, jealousy. As pretty as you are, haven’t you had a boyfriend or two that were jealous of you?”
In a slightly bored frequency. “Yeah, quite a few.” Softly she blew smoke at him. “What are you addicted to?”
Just the way she looked at him, just the way her lips curved blowing smoke at him, just the way she drawled, made his passion rise up for her. Again, testosterone started saddling up the stallion. He continued to study the architecture of her face.
Again she inquired, “What are you addicted to?”
He continued to survey her with a studied stare and a slight grin. Nonchalantly he drawled. “Sexy women.” He watched to see if her expression changed.
Shadowed with a hint of wisdom, a Mona Lisa grin sashayed across her face. “What is your definition of a sexy woman?”
He looked at her for a full moment before replying. “One that is cool on the outside, but smoldering below the surface.”
The Mona Lisa grin was still there, but so faint that one would miss it if they weren’t looking for it. She said nothing. Her blue eyes surveying his face.
He waited, knowing she wanted to know if he classified her a sexy woman. He also knew that she wouldn’t ask him in a direct way. She was too cool to do so.
In a sultry frequency, she quizzed. “How can you tell if she is smoldering below the surface?”
“I can’t, but my hormones can.”
“Oh really. How do your hormones recognize a sexy woman?”
“Her chemistry makes them flow south.”
Brophy studied him, drawing on her cigarette, blowing a halo of smoke in his direction. Randall knew that she wanted to ask in which direction were his hormones flowing at present, but wouldn’t do so.
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