Mildly amused, bulbs popping as if facing a sunbeam or a fever-horror, I could not know which. “Well, if there's any young people in the room", he jabs and I, the youngest, laugh again: he has the years, I have the nerve.
He wants me to call him "baby" behind a golden, thick polystyrene curtain. Fine: baby, you're killing me.
The knife turns, but blood in your teeth isn't poetic, even when I almost enjoy it. I give it an 8 out of 10. I'd only leave for a perfect score, maybe now even you would have agreed with me.
If I don't bite my tongue, a lot of poets come to mind, especially you. But I sink in fresh air. That is my gift. I drink burnt espresso in the sun — two, three — and as they say where my paladin lives: cheers!
Sylvia, he believes I am him. Me, who has never touched a French press, and says I love you like it's not a death sentence. He calls it excitement. I always call it what it is.
Thank God I only use a toaster.
