It was the usual bullshit Tuesday morning when she walked in. I was cleaning my gun.
“Are you Smith?” she said.
She had the kind of eyes that could skull fuck a nun, from 60 yards, and her words were moist with surprise.
“In the flesh,” I shrug. “Get you a drink, Doll?”
“Bourbon,” she nods, “three fingers.”
My sphincter reflexively tightens and my root chakra lets out a little shiver that causes me to break down into an almost imperceptible funk dance.
“Rocks?” I whimper.
“No, straight up.” she says. My penis finishes its gin gimlet, throws a twenty on the bar, and runs out the door to catch the bus.
“I’m here because my husband is a crazy man,” she states. My penis runs into the street and is flattened by a delivery truck.
“That’s a fucking shame,” I mutter.
“What?” she says. “Oh,” I say, “all men are the same.”
I hand her a drink. We smile and clink glasses. She takes a sip. “Do you love him?” I ask. She spits her drink out so violently that its reduced to a subtle vapor and my thoughts get drunk in her hair.
The next nine days are filled with such wonderful craft projects and baked goods that I hesitate, I honestly don’t know where to begin. Dear reader can you help me?
