It was a soft summer night in paradise, flashing crimson words lighting up the sidewalk’s smokey gloom: Live, said the one. All nude, said another. The triple X glow of sex against the curve of a hip and the hard-candy gloss of a garter. Yeah, it was the kind of hazy humid night an insomniac could appreciate by candlelight, but the ice wasn't cold enough in my margarita, and the salt tasted like asphalt. I didn't even know what they were talking about, the two massive blue-black shapes looming in the darkness behind me. I can't even recite the alphabet the normal way.
published 1 June 2011