Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

Reds

<  Six Wives

by Kyle Hemmings        On the Street  >

 

They’re in a Chinese restaurant on a blind date. She looks intensely into his eyes, as if she could rule him or maybe wants him to believe she can. They talk about their favorite plants. Then she admits she really doesn’t have any. He asks her if she likes animals. She says she once had a dog, a Basset Hound named Mickey, who had sad eyes and a way of making her feel defensive. She tells him she works in a doctor’s office and moonlights as a vocalist in a death metal band called DNA MISHAP.

Jimmy G shakes his head and says AWESOME.

She tells him that he has some General Tso on his Ferris Bueller’s Day Off vest.

“Oh,” he says, flustered, reaching for a napkin.

He says that he works as a short order cook at a Greek restaurant where they serve fifteen kinds of hamburger specials. His real passion is doing post-apocalyptical slam poetry based on the work of H.P. Lovecraft.

She sneers, then giggles.

“Seriously?” she says.

“Uh-huh.”

Later she tells him that she was into muscle dudes, but the attraction always burned itself out.

“Do you feel a connection?” she asks.

“Sort of. It’s uhm wavering and at times, shorn.”

“Mmmm . . . Let’s play a game of Reds. You tell me something unbelievably embarrassing, and I’ll tell you.”

“Go first.”

“I have this neurotic thing with guys. I push them to the edge, say all kinds of weird insulting things, and then when they tell me to fuck off, I just brood for days.”

“That’s deep.”

“Your turn.”

“I’d like to suck your nipples before the upcoming apocalypse turns us to stone.”

She stares past him.

“Somebody once said something similar to me, only he wanted to go lower.”

She asks for the check. She says 50/50. He says 40/70.

She says they could be compatible, but . . . she has issues with guys who wear 80s clothes on a first date.

 

 

One night, after he goes to bed, he hears tiny stones hitting his apartment window.

He rises, opens the window, looks down. It starts to rain.

It’s Moe, standing in shorts, sandals, and a tee-shirt. No bra.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she says.

He yells out that he wrote this really fucked up poem about her, that in her absence he felt this really weird connection and that he could really latch on to her demons.

“Could you please shut the fuck up,” cries a neighbor.

In nothing but his underwear and oversized slippers, he rushes outside, stands before Moe.

“I feel your darkness,” he says, as if a pivotal scene from his favorite horror movie with romantic interludes.

She takes off her shirt.

“I had a dream of you standing naked except for that stupid vest. You were hard.”

“Wow,” he says.

“Are you hard?” she says.

“I’m your hardest monster.”

“Slam me.”

On the barren sidewalk at 3:a.m., he sucks her nipples until the world goes soft. 

 

published 27 March 2013