(all said with a hill-billy accent)
It was all OKAY at the diner until Sally let out a big scream for far bigger reasons than the wasp tickling his tongue on her meringue.
Sunday had been an exceptional day for dominoes, yet all Sally could think about was the writer across the yard, perched heavily on his saddle, mimicking noises of the birds and laughing with eyes that protruded into the iris of every customer. Straws stood still in what seemed like an eternity, only the greed from the guy devouring a mountain of pancakes broke the silence at Seabrook Sizzler.
He grabbed a large package from the inner lining of his vintage biker jacket and sucked up the essence through his mediocre nostrils. Sally thought for a moment about the possibilities of scents reaching his lust-less mind in ratio with the capacity of wirey hairs plumped up through his orifices. One could only imagine the horror.
Earlier that day, Sally had made a pact with herself in the soap scum stained mirror of her Grandma's house.
'PRO-ACTIVITY WILL SET YOU FREE'
She remembered this as if a faithful friend were whispering in her ear.
Sally put down the pocket mirror she'd been holding in her salty hands, and stepped down onto the monotone tiles. As she headed for the door, she realised she hadn't paid, but carried on, aimlessly tugging at her skirt and trying to push up her bra with a pretence of folding arms - 'to MAXIMIZE THE CLEAVAGE'.
Heavy neurotic practise set in but it was too late, an old lady with the sweet smell of putrid musk held back the diner door and out she spilled. Tottering into the sun's rays, twiddling a strand, puckering her lips with desperation, she fell. Angsty egg shell-blue pavement teetered with her fake eyelashes.
'PRO-ACTIVE'
The nostril guy was only about two metres away. She could smell the tobacco absorbing into his rusty fingernails. He obviously couldn't, she though, but she needed to know.
'Ahh madamesweille, haeeven't youu leearnt how as tooo wok propeerly yet?' he grunted, 'But youu havvve those seeecxy leeegs, oui oui...'
She didn't say anything, just hitched up and took a ride back to his.
They stood ten yards apart from each other on his breeze-block pathway. Dandelions had uprooted themselves between the cracks and there was a distinct smell of melted butter floating by on a wafting dust cloud. Her stance seemed to keep her in some sort of static silence. Her kneecaps barely even came close to touching, yet her fingers were locked in some kind of grotesque ritual, rubbing each other up and down.
He backtracked down the garden and ushered her into his baby blue house under his sweaty armpits.
Fridge magnets plastered the sickly lime-green walls. A full 360 degrees décor of C's and P's and E's. She felt his palm chafing the back of her crotch and she slid away. She found the bathroom behind an old mattress. It was pristine compared to feline piss en-coated carpet the other side of the rut. There was no shower, so she turned on the tap in the bath and swilled out the hairs layering the sides and got out her bath oils. As she sat in the tub, she looked up and above her head a precarious piece of metal was hanging in limbo. The water scolded her skin.
Sally's shampoo was squirted onto her hand, taking up half the area of her palm, then placed directly in exactly the same four places on her scalp as always. She groped every strand with crab-like hands, dunked her head into the water and swirled around like a mermaid, trying not to think about the ships and sharks. Lurch up out of the ocean and repeat with conditioner. She scrubbed her face raw. Re-doing her legs, underarms and other places. Stepping onto the mat made her want to heave. She went through her usual ritual making sure she was preened to perfection, dressed, then climbed out of the window.
It was all OKAY until Sally watched a blue-rinsed face ninety year old cross the road without help. There was a group of them in fact, and none of them had any help whatsoever. You could see them far off on the other side of the river in the distance. They looked like tiny matches bunched up ready to spread their wings, holding their walking sticks for dear life. They were ready to let loose and batter each other into infinite.
As they passed the foxgloves, one of their friends mentioned something about orchids in a greenhouse. Furious, the blind lady nudged the orchid friend into the water. She sank slowly to the bed of the river, no attempt was made to save her as her petticoat rose up and spread out like a lily-pad, joining the rest as they sucked in the air and out again, wired up to life-saving machines, billowing frenzied patterns. You could just about make out hundreds of lungs expanding underwater and the vastness of their capillaries letting out two second sighs.
They name them after Japanese octopus traps because of the way they swell up, tiny tentacles hanging flaccid, as the glands pour out and fill up their raging hearts.
