And you just stared centreville art

robert b. weide, west, poisongirls, help, art, bars, freplyspang, french/appendices, cd, rap, local, classified, tees, comedians, You can sense it is some sort of beginning, but you are not sure of the direction. You call an Indian friend as you drive home. The talk is easy, almost girlish in its give and take. You decide to meet for papads and beer. A couple jogs past your car at the freeway on-ramp, the centreville woman’s blond ponytail bouncing. The two of them appear confident. Do they never centreville court disappointment? Under the bright street lamps you notice that their calves are centreville smooth and well formed. Pumping. You drive to a Jack In the Box, some place anonymous. Bending over the sink you splash your face. Drying your hands, you read the graffiti on the toilet seat, the angled scrawl like the camp sign in a jungle movie.
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And you just stared at him, your big black eyes brimming with disdain. art Keith was becoming stranger as you stared. Keith, whose come was still drying on your chest hair. He would ask you to stop staring. And you wouldn’t. Because . . . all your mother wants to art talk about is how her knees are killing her and that there being no elevator she takes an art hour to go up and down the stairs of her apartment building. You pictured her holding the phone a little away from her ear as she usually does. Adding more distance. And maybe he was empathizing, or lying , or both, but fake Keith said his mother has arthritis too. And then you laughed. Because then Keith, stranger who sported a "Free Tibet" sticker on his Miata, said "What about Para Access?" First time fucked, you pull out of suburbia, the evangelical church now ringed in neon.
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