that large loom loomed large in the spinster's stories. every day she'd string together yarn after yarn for the spindly women the next porch over, who were too fragile to escape her boasts of indigo cardigans crocheted for crotchety long-dead heads of state -- truly an unspooling of material far beyond any of their threadbare memories. these women may once have been cut from the same cloth, but their patchy relationship would soon unravel like a performance of 'bolero' by wounded hemophiliacs.
Monday, June 27, 2011
she yanked back her purse from him after he had stooped to retrieve it from the floor of the baskin robbins. she had thrown it toward his shins seconds earlier; nickels and dimes were still rolling around the linoleum.
'what about bodega bay?'
'you've got to be fucking kidding.'
with that she left. he picked up all the change and bought two scoops of brightsicklygreen pistachio mint. he found her debit card under a stool and handed it to a chinese boy, who started shrieking, reminding him of her.