His slight body slithered on the leather seat like fine silk on a geisha. Careful of gossip, with his shoulders at attention and his hands folded loosely in his lap, he delicately laid out the facts.
The nascent masculinity of Robin's neighbor peeked her interest; as did the chilling complicity of his father. Her voyeurism was catnip, its throbbing anticipatory character an antidote to the debilitating heat of consummation.
Bulbous drops of rain as clear as gloom bruised his cheeks; camouflauging the convulsions of a hunchbacked, broken man hurdling through the storm.
Fear ran through her veins as her mind stared inward in disbelief. With no power of thought to stop its destabilizing invasion, anxious energetic currents threatened to drown her mind's eye.
Although his black slacks had the sheen of too much ironing, his gait still crackled with pizazz. As he rounded the corner he noticed her camera, stopped short, paused and said, "Put it in a magazine." Startled by his candor, she focused and clicked. It took her a moment to register the lingering sound of music. It was playing at a respectable volume from a device hidden inside his camel colored overcoat. Like a cool breeze, his savoir faire left a light footprint, along with the gift of delight.
I did not worry forward today. Blown out on the breath of asana, my body's expression alchemized the rattle of my brain.
Pre-digital longing wafted through the senses, a spiraling intensity, ebbing and flowing in the fiction of the mind.
The reservoir between fear and compassion engulfed them, like punctured buoys drowning in a melting lake.
The arch of your back bellowed and sighed in atmospheric awe under a rotund Hare Krishna incantation over a roots reggae riddim: yoga class, New York City.
The rage of the subway orator was stunted by the equally insurgent singer. He justified his disturbance in the name of God's wrath and her response was passionate pop music. As he declared, you are an abomination in pants, she silenced him with her vociferous lack of recognition, rendering him a false prophet in search of significance.
And Lester knew that he was and would ever be this mouse's *only* killer; and that this fact would never not be true. They had this together, he and the mouse, for eternity. The moment the mouse had entered the house, the memoric catalogue of all of his moments would take on a different sheen--each was a movement that would lead to his eventual demise. But then, Lester thought--so were his, to an unknown predator that would finally do him in. And suddenly the reality magnified from the story of this mouse, to the story of this man, and to the story of... what? Lester felt a rush of deep respect for this inexorable rodent, of whom he was now bereft.
[Note: increasing confusion of the referent of the pronoun "he" as Lester or the mouse is deliberate]
Boredom pulled his blood downward into a malaise filled with arrogant posturing. His witticisms were no longer welcome as the head post office clerk.