Monday, November 14, 2011

On a Date: Too Drunk

"I like going straight to a bar for a first date," she said, "it makes things easier."

Indeed, the date became easier and easier. My tab, I estimated, was roughly equivalent to my car insurance payment. We spoke with our faces extremely close. Her breath was acrid, as was mine. We flirted and joked. I held her hair up to my face, pretending it was a beard, I burped a flavor into it which foreshadowed vomit. My veins pumped a furious torrent of bourbon. Vodka percolated desperately in her brain. She showed me her bra. She showed me her panty. I attempted to dance. We spared the dart board but damned the wall. The world was our oyster, and her apartment our pearl. The streets were her shell, my car a shucking knife. The keys to her front door an elusive clown fish, her purse a web of sea grass. Our clothing was the shackledom of society, her bed an incorrigible whirlpool for my senses. My mouth, a vessel of anointment, her naked body, a receptacle for my vomit... I payed for dry cleaning.

No comments:

Post a Comment