Meat

The prince’s house makes me feel respect for his house. The house causes me to stand and look at his house as if his house deserves all of my attention. I will need to be butted out of this drifting off into full respect for his house by something necessary or urgent, and nobody will get me to speak about my mother’s new boyfriend instead of the prince who lives in this house.

The first time I met the prince, he was talking to his hired man inside of my neighbor’s garage, and he told me to come by sometime and we could have an Ovaltine at his house.

I just don’t want to say why we were all in the garage. It is not even as germane as the rumpled prince on the edge of his property today, talking with the three hired men. His hair, his shirt, his trousers were rumpled.

There was a rather smooth aspect to the shirt of one of the hired men, how it stretched itself smoothly down, then down in under and behind his belt, which reminds me of the food galore at my mother’s boy­friend’s party, which an overweight woman dressed in white with bleached yellow hair prepared and served to us—meat.

I loved Gwen—the woman sitting next to me at the party. She bakes her bread in a machine. It doesn’t swirl, but since it is better to be impetuous, she puts into it anyway cinnamon and raisins into the white dough!

I am tempted to not say anything more which could imply anything, because this is not literature. This is espionage.

n.b. If you like, change all the words.