Here are the facts:
- I had little money to my name.
- I had few friends.
- I could not afford a place to live.
Correction to number 2: I had no friends.
Unless you count the woman with whom I shared an office at the clinic, whose ample breasts pushed for freedom from within her nylon top, purchased with purpose at least two sizes too small. The ensuing battle of tensions seemed to erupt from all parts of her body: her lips were constantly pursed and she walked with exaggeratedly small steps, as if she was holding a water balloon between her thighs. On a balmy evening during the summer in question, we were strolling post-nosh on the Cantabrigian sidewalks, slowly, slowly, carefully avoiding the uneven dips between the bricks. As we paused to part ways on a corner, she approached me from behind a pair of lips dripping with the night’s humidity. It was supposed to be a kiss, but it was not. In today’s terms, you might call it a mash-up. Afterward, she shifted her nylon buttress and followed her bosoms past the all-night pizzeria and the newsstand to the underground subway stop. We worked together for two more months, until shortly after the affair of the blue panties. By then, all we shared was animosity.
So I guess I wouldn’t count her, after all. The correction stands.
[This might be a work-in-progress. Feel free to comment in any fashion you choose, keeping in mind that your comments may be incorporated into the story as it develops.]