Grotesque The Glass.

There is little in the way of illumination beyond the come hither of the one-arm bandit, the dim bulbs and the fluorescents striping in repeat in the mirror behind the teak. She works the tables, throwing hello, hello, hello. He orders a drink and he admires her over the rim.

Eventually, she nudges him at the jump, brushes his cheek. She regards him, unbuttons her smile and begins. He leans in, listens, breathes her in. Her words nest his hair. He watches their faces, hers and his, loom in the brass, grotesque the glass. “Wait here,” she says. So this is what he does.

9 thoughts on “Grotesque The Glass.

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