Thanks, all. Glad to know I'm on the right track with it.

I think what my question is, is do I need to paint in some picture of what's gained from fidelity? Is there anyway to do that without moralizing, which I have no interest in doing.

Victor, I don't think so - justification doesn't seem to be the impetus behind the piece.

What you've done is to offer a beautifully written little precis on why temptation is human. And in point of fact? The fact that you aren't taking the girl up on her unspoken invitation is its own justification.

I don't think it needs anything.

I don't think it needs anything.

Hmm. I'm leaning this way myself. Still, worth pondering.

Not necessarily, Victor. You ponder too much, you'll end up overanalysing the thing and bitching it up. Let it be - it's as close to perfect as it gets.

Victor, that piece is stunning.

Because I just skimmed and skimmed and skimmed, are we posting our responses to the drabble challenges here?

Jilli, you can if you like; I think most people have been, but it's not a requirement.

Drabble #2: place

Almost-but-not-quite too dark to see, red walls and glossy black tables that only show up in the flickering of the candle flames and the rhythmic punctuation of the strobes. The flare of a lighter gives a snap shot glimpse of dark eyes and a pout, both outlined in black.

It smells faintly of the sweat from the dance floor, but is almost hidden by the sharpness of a spilled drink, a haze of cigarette smoke, and eddies of incense. If it were quiet, you’d be able to hear the creak of leather, the faint squeak of vinyl, the rustling of lace and petticoats. But even the most private of conversations can be held in shouting anonymity, hidden under the thundering music screaming about lust, darkened dreams, and decay.

Aaaaand one other, which I'm not sure I'm happy with, but oh well.

By day, there’s just a ragged expanse of green, punctuated with bright dandelions. Bordered on two sides by battered wood in need of more white paint, on another by chain link almost hidden under bindweed, thistles, and blackberry vines, it could be any carelessly-maintained back yard.

By night, the bindweed, thistles, and blackberry vines are iced silver by the moon. By night, you know the apple tree is growing toward something instead of merely being bent by time. The breezes don’t bring bees and butterflies, but the scent of unknown flowers, and whispers just at the edge of hearing.

I know that apple tree, and love that drabble.

Here's another one from me.

Florence

Sunlight, the smell of sweet grappa moving in the still summer air, with the distant rustle of pigeons' wings in the piazza.

The roofs are red, famously so. At the end of a shadowy stretch, the African men roll out their blankets, stocked with fake Gucci and Prada, oddly interspersed with bullwhips and incense cones. The stretch is a tunnel. Those who walk from the lungarno to the Piazza Della Signori pass beneath the stone eyes of ageless greats: Dante, Machiavelli, Michelangelo.

In the piazza, David stands young and valiant. Bats wheel in the Tuscan sky, and dinner is cooking.

99 words exactly:

The sun burns your feet and you wipe your sweaty face on your shoulder, hands busy pulling up rope as Tash climbs.

You lean out against the anchor and look down, past Tash, past the shaded jungle at the bottom, to the beach three hundred feet below. With the sun so high, you can see the turtles turning circles in the lagoon. Tourists – pale, burned, brown -- scatter across the sand in indecipherable patterns.

A longtail runs onto the beach and three people jump out, packs heavy. From here you can't hear the boatman cry, "Ao Nang! Ao Nang!"