Conjugal

A certain Miss Mary in off-white stockings. You were to meet her behind the bleachers at midnight. The weather was frigid on the long walk there. Everything looked like someone’s last known photograph. A motel boasting of Magic Fingers, your pants on fire in the moonlight through a stained glass window, a homeless man by his burning barrel singing Amazing Grace. It was anticlimactic when put your hand up her shirt, even with her devilish smile. With god as your witness, blind as he was with his black teeth.