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His green acres slid past her carport, Lincoln Mercury in staccato effect. Montana sky blue eyes, grey as Seattle June rain, say rounded valleys of her hips, rippling foothills of her ribs. The air between them is 10 sabin thick, goes down like cotton or wool, and clings to their lungs, in-exhalable. Her chrome and satin, brighter than a prairie blaze, kills his moonshine motor in mid-stroke. Where their eyes touch Venusian thunder clouds smoke with Wyoming lightning spread out in clean welcoming sheets. The first dinner lies out- a restaurant in moon perfume and antique revolutionary candle wax tied right up to the flower of rubbering bumpers and high beams. Her garter Cabaret is a neon stripe of Portuguese carnival sung by Gregorian nuns. With a 12 cylinder growl coiled springs paper and remember, paper and remember, under a bicycle pump aluminum slide. Parabolaed to a pinpoint by vulcanized inertia her skyscrapers are horizoned. Boy goes driving, sees girl, falls in lust, and passes by. | |
| Damon Wyle |