...in the middle of the sentence, she got up from the oak table,

and walked out. She in her ravishing red velvet dress that has

been worn out for many years. Threads hung from it until they

dragged along the beer-soaked wooden floor. She dragged her

tapestry of filth with her, like the slutty Vegas whore she was.

Walked right out away from me, passed the yellow hissing lights

and drunk couples who only dream of copulating in pornographic

films. Passed the midget on the bar stool who is smothering his

oversaturated moustache in the cleavage of a buxom blonde bitch.

She walked swiftly in that red old dress, I could hear her

thighs move back and forth, swish, as they rubbed her pubic

hairs together like Velcro...

© 2001 David Greg Harth

01.08.17.12:32:38 @ 1515 NYC