...runnin’ a little bit hot tonight/ I can barely see the road from the heat comin’ off of it/ Ah, you reach down, between my legs/ Ease the seat back....
The day, the night, is like a soft caress, the fur of a kitten, the breath of an almost-lover just before a kiss. Stop me if you've heard this before.
It calls for windows down, and I absorb atmosphere.
Thank you to the Silver Spring planning committee, who hires a band to play tonight. I can hear nothing but the snap and boom of drum, and the occasional crash of high-hat, but as that's what I like best anyway, I am not complaining.
Thank you to the woman listening to the Temptations and singing along.
Thank you to the twenty-something cutie in the beat-up pickup truck kind enough to flirt with the likes of me.
Thank you to the makers of my beach chair, on which I recline behind the hedge on the porch, wearing less than I would if I were completely exposed to the street.
I dig through boxes, searching. There's nothing wrong with my clogs: nothing right with them, either. This day requires sandals. The pink ones. Hot pink kitten-heeled thong sandals, with tiny little straps that wrap around my foot.
I will leave to your imagination whether my undergarments match my footwear, my outerwear, or nothing in particular.
Primarily Decorative has not made a permanant switch to Team Brain.
(Panama; Van Halen)