hypervodka
You will do regretful thingd, just for a chance to be held.
He grips her hand firmly, so firmly that she believes he will never let go.
They sit in utter silence, except the sound of crickets and of automated sprinklers and of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, fighting over something stupid two doors down.
It's wonderful.
She takes the ice cream regally, sneaking a lick, maybe two. It's strawberry, her favorite, and it matches her strawberry hair and her strawberry lips and her strawberry smile. Then, without a word, she presses the cone firmly into my nose. The sweet, pink milk runs down my eyelashes, my cheeks. She is the most beautiful girl in the world.
Where was I? I can't remember.
This trip, so far, has been something awful and blurry and wonderful and not at all befitting of someone of my station.
It's all Catalano's fault.
He saw my leather jacket, he saw the neon-colored drink in my hand, he saw my limousine. He saw it, and he smiled and said, "I can do you one better."
And I believed him.
I waited there for ever, I think. He got my letter, but he didn't come. My train was long gone. I told him I was going to get on it and never come back and from then on, he would be the one to feed the cat and pay the bills and shit like that.
But he didn't come.
God dammit.