Carmine itched his temple in the direction of the anxiety producing event, a man in spandex stretching his crotch in a beam of sunlight. A dog howled, the honk of a horn. He who tamed the insects. Carmine was waiting for the main capital woman, who said she’d be wearing pearl glasses on a chain. He crossed his legs to produce a pain in his hip, which usually grounded him for 10 minutes. The trees were a mixture of margarita, neon lime and paradise green. Bullies on bicycles, dolls pushing strollers of dolls pushing strollers of…suddenly, the puncture of high heels.
Scenery bushes rattling fever again. She was his scenery, no, programmer. Feeding him new formulas, after the expiration date, sucked dry. Algorithms get juiced, around the block, worn out, like book hookers. She sat on the bench next to him, an envelope tickling his eye.
She made her fingers dance up his arm like a spider, which, upon reaching his shoulder, slowly rested one black-tipped foot on his antitragus. He unfolded his legs. She lowered her glasses to reveal two cold black caves emanating vapors.
