pushed through, tearing it apart. I keep going until I feel the edge of the blade reach my crumb-filled palm, only slightly scratching the surface of my skin. No blood. Just a slight nicholas. Scooped and laid, gentle lay-me-down, a hymn to accompany perhaps. Immortal, invisible, God only wise. Saxophonic crackle of the throat.
Risen in the oven, baked in a dozen, gone in a sudden, straight to the bosom.
Doyle’ s suit continues to itch him as he glides over to his darling Joanna in a similar fashion to a servant, hoping to not offend or arouse any anger from his unappealing hosts.
– Please, I beg of you, try and keep the crumbs off the fabric. – You know that I try.
Little specs of discomfort lodged into the fabric, place of comfort; acting as little blades. Believe, you can swipe and push, drag even, the crumbs over the side yet they hop, skip and jump, you see, back up. Orfeo, the dastardly temptress, looks forward for them. One would love to slowly peel their suit off as though it was shedding. Seduction, to entice, tempt, to attract. My heart and soul do not lie in the art of seduction. Effective seduction must come at an ease that I do not possess. Wit is gangly and lanky in its stance, never quite sure what to do with its hands. Sweated palms that ripple and raise paper, receipts. Not at all useful when signing cheques, either a slip of the pen disrupts a well-crafted signature, the symbol of the person, or the tips, damp, raise.
– Is that the time? What is the time? Tarty tardy, there is a most reassuring elegance in lateness. Six: fifty. Appointment time.
Grove, painted in such a romantic way with the wind beaten wood parallel to the pristine painting. Perhaps it hangs to entice, no, certainly, but it takes only small thinking to realise its misleadings. Spit it out dead man! Sleep, I say. He spits out the foam of his wheat, like soap slipping. Doyle begrudgingly slides over the crumpled note
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