She said she wanted me to take her dancing, so we put on our dancing shoes and we danced all the way to the dance hall.
By the time we got to the dance hall, we were exhausted and sweaty.
“Want to dance all the way home?” I asked her, panting heavily.
“No,” she said, fanning herself with a dance card. “Call a cab.”
So, I called a cab, and we went back home.
“That’s a wrap,” I told the jazz quartet that follows us everywhere.
“Good gig,” they said. They put their instruments away and went out for coffee.
It was the best of tricks, it was the worst of tricks.
Sidney Carton could pass for Charles Darnay, and the others thought he was going to trade places with the doomed Frenchman.
Lucie would get her husband back, while Sidney would lose his head.
“Am I really going to do this?” he asked himself, facing the moment of truth.
“Hell no,” was his answer, but he said it in French with his impression of Darnay’s voice.
Then he had himself smuggled out of the prison as Darnay.
Lucie wasn’t fooled one bit. But she grew to love him anyway.
Sally and Bob had hit a rough patch.
Sally told Bob to go to Hell.
Bob told Sally that being with her was worse than Hell.
Which was true.
Sally’s parents were pitchfork-carrying demons. And instead of a lawn, the house was in the middle of a lake of fire.
You could say that the air was filled with the wails of the damned, but it was just a Justin Bieber album that got stuck in the player.
But you don’t tell a chick that being with her is worse than Hell.
She killed him.
And he went somewhere better.
As he neared the age of fifty, Don Quixote grew weary of endless adventure and battles.
“Go home to your island,” he told his companion Sancho.
Quixote rode his horse Rocinante one last time down the main road, and settled into the old Quijano Estate.
“Please, come back,” wrote his beloved Dulcinea.
But he never did.
Quixtoe hung up his lance, hammered the helmet of The Knight Of The White Moon into a shaving basin, and quietly read books.
“Fight us!” hissed the giants on the hills.
But they were long since dead, and their skeletons turned in the breeze.
Belinda doesn’t care what I do or say. She just wants to shop, party, and sleep.
Me, I want to do something more. Maybe settle down and raise a family.
But it’s hard to do when you’re always hopping to from one hotspot to another every night.
Betsy is the sensible one. Wants all the same things I want.
But Belinda is so much fun.
That’s when it hit me: I’ve already got the mistress. All I need is the one I can marry. Right?
Belinda doesn’t care what I do or say. But Betsy packs a wicked left hook.
I’m tired. You’re tired.
And you say, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
I say “Goodnight.”
And before you vanish, I want to say something, anything, but all I manage to say is “I” before you vanish.
I smile, and whisper the other two words, and tell myself “Maybe tomorrow.”
Like I told myself last night. And the night before. And every night before that.
But I never do.
“Goodnight.” I say to the empty air, and I breathe in slowly.
Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that.
Just three words?
And I vanish to sleep.
“No,” she said.
He reached across the table for her hand and tried to slide the ring on.
She pulled her hand out of his.
“No,” she said again.
They sat for a while. Neither touched their wine or spaghetti.
People at other tables tried not to stare, but they did.
She was the first to leave.
He waited a bit before he got up and left.
“No charge,” whispered the maitre’d.
He nodded, and got into his car.
“They bought it?” she asked.
He nodded, grinning.
“Good. Now give me my ring back. And don’t forget your wallet again.”
“You are my sunshine,” sang Carlos to The Sun. “My only sunshine.”
But The Sun knew better.
This morning, as she rose with the dawn, she saw how sad Carlos was after the stars had all vanished one by one when the night was over.
This time, she’d caught him whispering: “Goodbye, my loves!”
Stars are nothing more than far-distant suns.
Suns. Just like her.
Carlos’ only sunshine?
The Sun vomited with molten fury, spitting a massive flare at Carlos.
It incinerated him and the entire planet he’d been standing on.
“Who’s your sunshine now, bitch?” thought The Sun.
She hates driving in heels.
“Try my shoes,” I say.
So, we swapped feet.
“Much better,” she says.
She hates how the seatbelt feels on her lap in that skirt.
“You’re not on your period, are you?” I ask.
She says no.
So, we swap a bit more.
And even more when she complains about the shoulder strap across her tits.
We get to the restaurant, but never make it inside.
“Take off my panties,” she says, undoing my belt.
We fuck, and it really hurts.
Ten minutes without her pussy, and she forgets to let it get wet first.
People ask me all the time how to pick up girls, and I tell them that you should lift from the legs and not the back.
Unless they’re so big, you need a forklift. But you don’t want to pick up those porkers, right?
Any you can pick up with tweezers are going to be a real cheap date because they don’t eat nothin.
Some, you can pick up with a radio. Those are probably way out of your league. Especially the ones on Howard Stern.
And if you can pick em up on a Geiger Counter, run like hell!