She had to change her look and the seconds were clicking, ticking, kicking her ass along her half-crazed vanity trip. She lit the bulb, she glossed the lips. In the Max-O-Mirror her eyes were huge and hollow and scared silly, where was her liner, her toner, her ma-ma-mascara, that plucker thing, that other thing, where went the time? If this date bombed, who would have her? The modest man in Raiford who wrote kind things from his prison computer? Would he take her to dinner in twenty-five to life, or just rape her on the ironing board and have done with her bony ass forever? Why weren't there milkmen anymore, those legendary steeds who hoisted a houserobed girl onto the Formica breakfast nook counter and parted her robe and dropped his pants and with her fuzzy slippers attached to his shoulder blades like a pair of alien neon caterpillars, humped her happy and boldly absconded with her fresh hot sticky buns?
Was it lunar tampon time again? So soon? She reached for Pamprin, Premarin, Tylenol, her luxurious vagina wipettes—the basil grapefruit scent this month or week—and shuddered at her flow, did everyone produce a tsunami? She liked the applicator well enough, but hated the string that dangled from her body—didn't boys possess some automechanism by which they pulled any dangling string?
Ou sont les neiges d'antan?
The doorbell! Well, unlucky beans, she thought randomly, come and get me, Buster! She dumped cologne down her frock's sagging neckline and sprinted for the door.
And opened it.
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