- Parent Category: Poetry & Prose
- Category: Short Stories
- Created on Saturday, 18 August 2012 17:05
- Last Updated on Saturday, 18 August 2012 17:07
- Published on Saturday, 18 August 2012 17:05
- Written by Ryan Fallon
- Hits: 366
She’ll give them all something to venerate when spring has sprung, and she ascends the thawing decay on the boulevard. She is neither Madonna nor whore. She is not affixed to corrosive convention. She is not afraid. She reigns. She is perennial. She gives me a once over with bombsight eyes, and methodically smiles as she coaxes the thigh-highs out of the grasp of my leather hands. The scratch of nylon against rawhide produces a sound more caustic to the senses than cast-iron shells cascading down on the pavement. But what jars my resolve is a resulting “Thanks, sweetheart,” as she turns towards the median of the boulevard. It’s perfectly enunciated; each syllable is a carefully rehearsed assault on the stiff upper lip.
The rest of the evening sends me reeling.
Stumbling back to the hotel by Union Square, the doorman asks if I’ve been shot. I tell the truth, that I’ve met up with the love of my life, again, under less than desirable circumstances. He winces.
Ryan Fallon is a cultural refugee from Camden, New Jersey. Follow more of his ramblings at http://bathtub-gin.tumblr.com.
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