Red Silhouette sways with the gentle breeze of the door like a blood stained reed growing out of the incredible muck. Feet stick to the floor where bottles of wine and booze and beer have been dropped by inebriates trying to hold on the tail of the Goodtimes Dragon, never learning it's impossible to hold on with its smooth scaly flesh.
A mass of newspaper and a trash bag are called, and declared good enough, until men stand frozen in their spots, trying with all their atrophied strength to move from their spots but only pantomime movement, swinging their bottles until exhaustion and inevitably adding to the trap.
She says nothing on her own to the sodden customers, ignores their questioning leers as they search in vain under her woven clothing for a hint of a curve. When directly addressed her answers are short and to the point, offering no curves of insight into how she spends her life outside of the flypaper store.
Some ask and compliment the ornate rings, some ask about her off hours. Still others have offered their theories on freckles and kisses from angels.
No humor, good or bad, is offered by the dark blue eyes. No judgment is passed like the dark hair behind her slender ears.
Outside the men gather and open their purchase, comparing notes and offering advice, none of which they are brave enough to take. One nice night they wait outside until close and confront the manager, but he tells them he knows just as much as them, except for what is on her papers.
An address then, they exclaim, perhaps if we know where she lives we'll know if she thinks she's too good for us!
The manager tries to explain as best he can that he can't do that. He begs them for understanding. He offers to clean the floor, if only they will let the matter drop.
Later that week they form a plan, as best as they can at their various stages.
Behind dumpsters and telephone poles and blades of grass they all hide, admonishing each other to be quiet between belches and vomits and giggles.
Eventually the store lights turn off and Red Silhouette appears, carrying her large bag and seeming not to notice the barely ambulatory ambush awaiting her.
Her tall black boots click against the sidewalk as she disappears around the corner. The mens' shoes squeak with the filth of the store as they make their way after her. After much fumbling and jostling they make it to the corner and after a debate the bravest one peeks his bearded head around and tries to focus.
But Red Silhouette is already gone.