Cathy always sat in
a small booth at the
end of the bar.
She had that empty cup
loneliness, the kind that
never goes away.
We got drunk together and
danced like puppets in
prison, injured by the night.
Tarantulas and scorpions
crawled the desert of her heart.
And I squeezed her ass while we
waltzed in the neon pain.
She said,
“For ten bucks I’ll suck it
until you give up.”
I said,
“You’re too late, Cathy, let’s find
a chestnut stallion and ride the
hell out of here.”
Yep. You did it again.
This is brilliant.
Thank you, so much.
You’re welcome
She’s too late??? Really good piece
Thanks.
Another kick ass write. Your a great storyteller Thomas.
Thank you.
Oh, this was lovely, Thomas – definitely one of my (many) favourites, fresh and vibrant visual yarn-spinning.
Thank you.