When in winter, the blood curls up softly. It settles to a slow silky jazz pace. Two saxophones and a muffled trumpet playing downstage, while a husky voice swims through cocktail glasses and over table linens.
Sophia Kohn Heart: my tadpole, my motivator. The name itself rips me open with long dollar-store red fingernails, sucks me dry, and then fills me with tears. Her water, her juice, is my Indo-European opiate. I’ll smoke her hot, until I’m cold dead.
This is February, and we’re in the City. The City is upstate. We come here after the leaves fall because the streets are crackly and dynamic. Sophia and I stroll, stomp, and kick our way between the Old Town bars and clubs. The Romanesque Cathedral being our favorite spot for herb-infused drinks and swank laden music.
We roust like candied pigeons, so pumped with sugary umbrella drinks and pillow mints from our summer hotel stays. Sophia slips her hand into my left jacket pocket for just one more sweat mint. “The trombonist has a high-note hard on,” she says. She likes to parallel her language with her sexuality.
K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Mad Assassin