Sunday, April 10, 2011


The wink wedged her eye into a crease that approached fig newton density, and although I didn't quite allow myself to peer back openly, I couldn't help but notice the depth in the fold during the act itself, and the way it propped itself back up with a startling similarity to sponge cake, though, I'd have to reassure myself, this was not a bakery, and, I shouldn't even be looking in the first place. Besides, I'd already consumed a fair bit of cake myself.  Things got weirder when she walked over and started talking, not because of her words so much as because of the fact of her stride--it was decidedly zigzaged, as if her legs were not actually attached to the top of her body.  And something was similarly disjointed about the bobbing of her skull atop her neck.  That was before I realized how drunk she was, though, and it must of been on something as hard as whiskey based on her breath. 

She wasn't talking to me, no, though I remained privy to the conversation.  Even at this level of inebriation there was a need for innuendo, for small talk, for indirect slapstick, and it struck me that, even though they were practically screaming themselves hoarse over the music, the small talk must go on.

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