…and other things you never suspected about me…
I never in a million years thought three inches could satisfy me.
And you ask me what I want this year, and I try to make this kind and clear
Johnny Rzeznick serenades me through the magic of digital formatting, and in tune with the piano’s descending minor arpeggio, I am lost in a spiraling recursion of reflection.
…just the chance that maybe we’ll find better days…
He leans back in the booth across from me, folds his hands on the table in front of him, and quirks his brow.
Weeelllll, he drawls in a smirkingly mock-stern tone, What do you have to say for yourself?
I lean forward and use my lips, awkward-fish style, to find the straw that will allow me to sip my lunch. Having successfully coated my throat with the sweet liquid, I adopt as authoritative voice as I can muster, and answer his challenge.
Clearly and concisely.
I. Have. Cleavage.
The waiter who overheard this exchange managed not to dump a plate of curry all over his patron’s lap.
But just barely.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This is what happens when Feve drinks.