Tokyo Toes told me August wouldn’t be back until way past New Fears Day.
He was down island picking up his malt teas from Falcon Black III.
She whispered in my ear that if I had had any hair, she would gladly run barefoot through it.
Just then the postman rang thrice, to tell us he had seen her cat playing in the burned out fireman’s haul across the road.
I told her I’d go get it.
She said:” Don’t go to any rubble for me!”
I could tell we’d gotten in a little too steep and she was steamed.
I had to get out of there.
There was too much to tempt us in a teapot.