When we got to her apartment she ran to use the bathroom, and on her way down the hallway she yelled, I just want gin, with a lot of olives, and a splash of soda water.
After I was done making her drink the olives looked like they should have been ice cubes there were so many. When I handed it to her she smiled and said perfect, just perfect.
Her living room is riding the concave praying arms of two stairwells, and her couch sleeps below its hands.
You don’t have any lemonade, so I squeezed your last lemon in with my gin.
Is it any good?
Have you ever been? My longest finger and two eyes pointed to the forever lit psychic sign. Do they ever close? Those signs always seem to be on.
She drew me back into the couch and when I pushed myself between her ribs I failed to find it. This newfound lack of a scent left me breathing lemon and gin heavy in hopes of coating the space between my lips and her skin with something.
We should go over there and find out what we’re made of, I’ve never been to a psychic.
I wanted an arbiter.