Her self-loathing shoulder bag pending, she was a mountain climber losing her accent. “I couldn’t leave without asking her,” the gaunt classroom dais painter began, his teeth grinding against the audible backdrop commotion.
He dropped to one painted ankle. “Cogent splatter show,” he said. Paint can forging ahead, he was a gunslinger in sandbox Halifax. It was a free-for-all, a white and cleaned-up knapsack I’d auctioned off live at the bookbinder’s graduation.
Thematically, driveway engineers were tracking a meltdown in case bullying awakens the campers: a pup tent trashcan, a handlebar-gripping maniac…
I’m fooling myself. That monocle the millionaire bought was an eyesore. “A tar pit armoire,” the doctor benignly suggested.
Me? I was ready to leave. The off-course hothouse had answered this locksmith’s faint prayers.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment