Hard to see to finish my shave, what I heard, I gathered, was that you had just urinated most copiously and with most obvious pleasurable relief.
I brushed my hand across the steamed up mirror to reveal your watery head over there, rising behind my left shoulder.
A somewhat mischievous look there was, on this childlike visage, so I slowly turned to gaze and my eyes were led by your eyes to a lonely tear of urine on the very end of your index finger, dancing the last desperate dance before crying to its death on the cold bathroom floor.
I bowed slightly, took this finger offered, and its offering, gently into my mouth, and saved the dancer's life.
You said, “Not a single road would lead me to Rome, but a thousand pathways have brought me alive from Greece.”
You dabbed my lips with the little folded rectangle of moist toilet paper that had, a little previously, delicately hung between your thumb and third finger.
No comments:
Post a Comment