She taps the watch face with her other hand, saying, “It is now four-thirty-nine. That was the day we missed our last sunrise.Īt the next dark street corner, where Sister Vigilante stands waiting, she holds up her thick black wristwatch, saying, “We agreed on four-thirty-five.” She says, “Purely ornamental, I assume.Ěnd of no nutritive value. Clark, her breasts so big they almost rest in her lap.Įyeing them, Comrade Snarky leans into the gray flannel sleeve of the Earl of Slander. Whittier, where his spotted, trembling hands can grip the folded chrome frame of his wheelchair. Women either lift or tint the color of their hair.” Sitting next to Comrade Snarky, the Earl of Slander was writing something in a pocket notepad, his eyes flicking between her and his pen.Īnd, leaning over sideways to look,Ĝomrade Snarky says, “My eyes are green, not brown, and my hair is naturally this color auburn.” She watches as he writes green, then says, “And I have a little red rose tattooed on my butt cheek.” Her eyes settle on the silver tape recorder peeking out of his shirt pocket, the little-mesh microphone of it, and she says, “Don't write dyed hair. Sneaking out on tiptoe with our suitcase down dark stairs, then along dark streets with only garbage trucks for company. With one suitcase still on the curb, abandoned, orphaned, alone, Comrade Snarky sits down and says, “Okay.” ,” Saint Gut-Free says into the microphone that hangs above his steering wheel.ĪndĜomrade Snarky says, “Fine.” She leans down to unbuckle a luggage tag off one suitcase.Ĝomrade Snarky tucks the luggage tag in her olive-green pocket, then lifts the second suitcase and steps up into the bus. With a black beret pulled down tight on her head, she could be anyone.
0 kommentar(er)
