That fucking ducky never felt so heavy. Just when I hit the sand I slid right into home base, legs first, without my helmet. 4-leaf clover in hand. Why the hell is Wayne Gretzky standing on home plate? This was beyond me, but at least he had a hockey stick and the bigmac and fries that I ordered. Thank god because I had never felt so hungry in a day. I jumped up into the press box looking for my fur coat and sandals that Donny Trump’s late wife had borrowed. Of course she forgot to leave them there as promised, so I was forced to head out to the bar, shoeless and mad.
After entering the Stoplight on 27th street, I started to get my groove back. All the fans wanting autographs and new watches were a bit much to manage, but one tequila two tequila and I was grooving on down to the wine cellar for a little bobbing apples. Who ever invented that game anyways? Whatever. Fuck it. Ill give it a go. Dunk my head down and pull back my lips exposing my teeth to the icy water, biting down on the mailman’s wrist. He swats and shouts through the bubbling liquid something about needing his mothers ring back, but I won't let go. I can’t. I need him more than my husband’s garden, and I need that big time. I bite and bite until the flesh softens blood into my stone mouth and there is nothing left to do but hold to bone and wait for revival.
Eventually we fall together backwards down the old stone staircase towards my grandparents house that burned in the fire. I always loved the woolen carpets that made my socks spark lightening flares in the house, and touching whoever I shocked. Their house was my house. Their house was my castle. The mailman dropped me off as he headed into the moss covered darkness. I crawled in through a memory of the old screened-in porch, tucked my head under the shadow of my nana’s arm, and slept my way into the night.