Just go with it.
He asked me quite abruptly, “Would you like to have this dance?”
I glared at him.
I couldn’t have this dance or any other dance any more than a sweet potato pie could have a headache.
I have a headache every night.
I combed the fangoria every night as well.
So then he implored me. Scraped his teeth free of plaque with a razor.
As a gesture of sincerity? To convince me that I wouldn’t have to learn how to tango?
I would just need to sway with me.
Anoint with me.
I should’ve thrown him on the swim team when I had the idea.
But I’m getting off-point.
The point is seven,
for every basket made outside of the court. Imagine that. A cradle of shark fin soup.
I’ve had shark fin soup. I’ve been led to believe I’ve had shark fin soup.
But I can’t have shark fin soup or any other kind of soup any more than I can have a dance.
All thoughts become undone.