Come.
Die with me a little.
The lampshade was tilted
at an acute angle
so that the glare of humiliation was undeniable.
I talked to a Potential Suitor (PS) last night. He works with the elderly, who tell him their secrets. An elderly gentleman told him how, at night, he kept his door unlocked at the nursing home in order to satisfy the womenfolk. He informed PS he had a different women every night. I laughed.
Other conversation ensued.
And then.
PS: I want to be one of those old men driving around in a convertible with a lot of gold chains and checkered socks.
ML: Ha. You’re going to keep your door unlocked and keep the ladies coming. (A horrified realization of my unfortunate choice of words and awkward pause…because clearly he heard it, too, and knew what I had just said and was unsure how to take it.) Ur, I mean, keep them coming in your room at night. (Oh Dear Lord, shut up, ABORT, ABORT!!! Say something else!) Ur, I really like a good pair of white socks.
Ah, death comes in tiny spurts.
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