Historical Boning

Karen Gustave is all pink nails and choppy blonde hair and spindly legs up on high heeled shoes, with one hand propositioning you to come forward and the other hand commanding you to step back. A cotton candy vortex, a pretty spider weaving a web, a blood-sucker? The sticky beat of summer calls me to her like a sickness, like some ugly zombie in a horror movie, and she’s shaking that ass, watching herself, shaking that ass, showing me what she’s working with. The apartment complex is shining like a spaceship ready for take-off when she heads past the doorman and I flick my cigarette butts off the crumbling veranda.

“So out of your arena,” says Carlos; I want to curse him for his picket-fence-straight teeth and good hair.

“Arena,” I say,” Out of my arena? Who even says that?”

“Karen’s not your type of girl, Mitch, you need to get over her—“

“I don’t need to get over anything, It’s not like I wanna marry her—“

Carlos rolls his eyes. “I have notrouble believing that.”

Despite myself, I give him a grin. “Yeah, well…”

We don’t need to say anything else. Karen Gustave, I’d grovel for you like an enslaved Egyptian and build you a fucking gold pyramid.