Wayne used to come in to the Handy Andy supermarket where I worked.
She wore no make-up.
She had a Texas twang
and would look down when she smiled.
I knew where she lived.
It was on her checks,
and besides, she invited me over.
Wayne had a roommate.
Her name was Myra and she was the personnel department at a bank.
I dubbed her "Orchestrater Of Demises."
She was six feet tall.
I liked her.
Wayne and I would go to the Broadway 50/50.
She always drank cognac.
I forget what I drank.
We talked about all the things we would do,
and didn't do any of them.
Wayne's cigarette would burn down,
balanced in the glass teeth of an ashtray.
In May, it was my birthday.
I had to work.
By then I had been let go from the supermarket for trying to unionize,
and I had a job closer to home;
closer to the park where the whores hung out.
They would sit on the fountain with their pimps, getting high.
I got in long after dark.
There were twenty-one stairs up to my door.
Wayne had left me a bottle of champagne with a gold bow.
The note said,
"Sorry we missed you.
Sundance snuffled at us appealingly from under the door.
Happy birthday from your harem!
Wayne Anna and Orchestrater of Demises."
I went in and fed my dog.
Then I turned the lights back off and sat near the window,
drinking by moonlight
to a Willie Nelson song.
my attempt at a vignette for Kerry's challenge ran a little long, so I am posting it to OLM at Real Toads instead.