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.]
4 responses so far ↓
1 David Pinto // May 22, 2010 at 11:24 AM
It’s a great beginning.
Funny, we were walking the dog yesterday and went by a friend’s house where they were installing a new walk with pavers. I mentioned the rough cobblestone sidewalks in Cambridge.
2 bureaucratist // May 23, 2010 at 12:56 PM
At the time, I had:
1. almost no money;
2. few friends; and
3. the crappiest of crappy apartment.
Correction to number 2: I had no friends … unless you count my officemate at the clinic, a woman with a penchant for nylon tops two sizes too small, constantly pursed lips, and a gait of steps so small that it seemed as though she was at all times holding a water balloon between her thighs. Not that I am complaining. I remember one balmy evening that summer, we had grabbed a bite to eat (all I could afford was coffee) and were strolling postprandially along the Cantabrigian sidewalks, slowly, slowly. We had to walk slowly, so that she didn’t trip on the gulleys between the bricks. Reaching the corner, we paused to take our leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
Then, without warning–it was the fastest I had ever seen her move–she leaned over (I was briefly afraid that she might fall) and pressed her wet lips against mine. It was not really a kiss; I suppose today the kids might call it a mash-up. After a few seconds–it could not possibly have been longer than that, despite how things seemed–she straightened up, shifted her nylon buttress, and followed her bosoms past the all-night pizzeria and the newstand to the underground subway stop. We worked together for two more months, until shortly after the matter of the blue panties. By then, all we shared was animosity.
So I guess I wouldn’t count her after all. The correction stands.
3 spitballarmy // May 23, 2010 at 6:35 PM
B. – That wasn’t exactly the kind of comment I was expecting, and at first I wasn’t sure whether it was an edit or a re-write. But you gave my take some good turns of phrase that I, in context, like a lot (‘penchant for nylon tops,’ ‘it was the fastest I had ever seen her move’). Thanks for that nice surprise.
4 bureaucratist // May 23, 2010 at 7:10 PM
That’s all I was trying to do. I took the “any fashion you choose” literally. Hope you don’t mind. Got a playlist coming shortly? I’m about to get stoned and was hoping to listen to it while I switched back and forth between the baseball to the basketball games.
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