S.B.T. 20

She was not the brand label girl Mother hoped Giles would end up with. “She’s kinda braised oatmeal,” she lowered her eyebrows, and then raised them up, her lady Shelly to the teatime side. “A nice girl though, but pale and dandruffy”. “Oh do be critical vermouth,” Shelly winked at her, all rubine flush. “Well, OK, she dances, by herself in the mossy living-room, laughs chin floats, and a long mid-calf curtain.” “Upon the my oh my, as the Captain would say,” Shelly vermiculated the seedlings. “I just don’t see what he reaps in the culls,” Mother added, shaking her head open to bye bye birdie.

Giles well kept anticipated glassine barometer in this case, as confounded as Mother, but beheaded antipathy when the bolt hit the crown. The first time he saw her, she was jumping off the sofa, giggling possessed with newfound here it is. It might have been the way her porkchop hair flanged like shingles. It was a mustard rust. Short with no accents, “Just a doo-wop blob” Mother said. He cringed but then laughed at the dream of seeing her at the bazaar in the tartans with those moves. The clan would be there abrupt cold soup, melting statuettes over the cheese.

She was no wanton burger, that was the fact, but who she is unfitted his lacings. The only thing he knew for sure is that none of his friends would want to keep her, and that gave him a sense of monkey dues not owed. He could imagine her mothering his loincloth hostings and feeding the babies with dribble corner, she’d smell of noodles and dried fern. She’d be a lifelong projectile vacancy, always welcome to the wet swimmer goosebumps.

Giles wanted to see her in the peas and carrots, wanted to wipe the windshield with her dry foccacia pillows, wanted to see if she will meld in the flickering timepiece, wanted to have her epoxy stick flagpole, wanted to try to make her sunburst steam bubbles over the thick black solar cookpot. He was ravenously in a spell of bewitched blah meadow, felt like he could stick to her guns, she didn’t have the wherewithall to weave a hempen noose of any kind, she’d be like a breeze over the parchment.

“She isn’t special perfume,” Mother whispered, “but she’s wax.” “Must be true intestines,” Shelly mused flunk out. The porcelain gold rims brimmed with sepia. A little lemon and a sprig of calendula tarragon sperm bank. Crisp egg cookies in the irish tin.

Maddy, they called her, though there was no demon handshake and much lavendar aerosol. You’d not think african sheep dance, or blazed Milanese studs. Giles in the window bath agreed it was steel-cut oats all right, cooked to a slimy invitation of stewballs, with no advent bright color but just a plain loaf.