“That man is always on the run. Run. Run. Run. He’s like a song. Just keeps going and going.”
Things become strange between us. Our kind conversation takes a spin and she—in all probability has consumed seven Pink Ladies, well on her way into this evening—extends a hand to my chest, cups one of my pecs with her elfish palm and fingers, and provides it with a gentle squeeze. “Nice.”
I pull away from her, shocked. Golden liquid splashes out of my flute and decorates her hand and my pec. My n****e grows hard from the shock. And a light gasp escapes my throat, proving my surprise. I sound like a schoolgirl: impish, threatened, impoverished.
She backs off, shakes her head, and apologizes. “Sorry…Sorry…I didn’t know you were like JD.”
I’m caught off guard by her comment, tilt my head to the
