Of all the gin joints in all the seedy, little, run-down, jerkwater towns quietly disintegrating into their constituent elements all around the world, she walks into my kitchen, wearing a black satin bra that could stop a .22 short and not much else. Well, except for pants, shoes, underwear etc.

“Hi, honey, how’d the business trip go?” I say.

“I was the only woman at the meeting,” she says.

“You make them all cry again?” I ask.

She nods and unhooks the bra. “Sheesh, this thing might look good, but it’s totally airtight.” She tosses it onto the table. At rest, it looks as though it fell off a space shuttle, except it’s black, not white, so maybe the Death Star.

Etc etc. I’m really busy today, so I can’t develop this, sorry. Also, going out of town this weekend, so no posting. And next week looks like it’ll be totally freaking busy as well, work-wise, so posting may be intermittent, rather than obsessive.