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.
Isn't that just the cutest little swimming Nazi?