J.L. had one of those mysterious gland problems.
Some villain gland that made him fatter and fatter;
he was always quick to point it out.
Harvey James invited J.L. over last Tuesday,
during that awful snow that shut down Beecher St.
Anyways, J.L. was supposed to arrive at 6,
however he never had plans and prematurely
arrived at 4:30.
Harvey was occupied with some blonde girl,
who was of a fine leather-tan.
From what Harvey could gather she liked
vampires, pop punk, and sweet tea.
Aside from that her body was okay,
her laugh tolerable, and her eyes were different colors.
The left a sea green, the right a murky grey,
but during a drought Harvey seemed to
settle on whatever vulture was around.
So, J.L. Kreeve knocked on the door.
He heard a bit of a ruckus,
the kind that comes out of computer speakers
when there is nowhere to go.
J.L. tried the door and to his luck it was open.
His entrance was well-timed,
as she let out a final wail,
Harvey gritted his teeth, began panting,
and their bodies collapsed on the sofa.
J.L.'s eyes went wide with
her tan structure.
Her **** seemed to be swinging
like plush dice in a teenager's first car.
"J.L. what the ****, man?"
J.L. continued to stare, stare, stare--
"J.L.," Harvey said firmer, "WHAT the ****?"
"Oh, my forgive me. Forgive me. I'll just step back outside."
And he walked out smiling.
"Sorry about that Whitney."
"Oh no big. It's been worse before. This one time I..."
Harvey tuned out. He hated her. And hated himself
for doing such a *****. He got up, nodding out
of habit and saying things like "oh yes" and "wow" and "I gotcha",-
to which she replied,
"You are like a great listener."
Harvey opened the door since they both were dressed.
J.L. apologized again.
Harvey poured a glass of white wine.
He wasn't much of a fan,
but it was alcohol.
He was trying to lay off the hard stuff
since he had one of those "near-death experiences".
When he came back in,
J.L. was grinning like he was the
smartest ******* on the face of the planet,
and Whitney was letting out little giggles.
Harvey thought perhaps they were having a worthwhile conversation.
He was mistaken.
They were talking about variations of sweet tea
at one of those chain drive-ins.
"Just talking about it is giving me this crazyass craving,"
said Whitney with dumb dimples and blank eyes.
"hahahaha, oh me too," said the 300-pound Clark Gable,
"want to go get some?"
"Oh why the heck not? Harvey, do you want to-?"
"Nah, I got some writing and other **** to do.
You two have fun."
They climbed into J.L.'s car.
Whitney made a comment about all the
sticks of deodorant lying about,
J.L. explained it away perfectly lackluster.
The snow was coming down good at this point.
And they got stuck before they even made it
to their treasure.
They sat in the car.
J.L. only had one CD.
It was some George Michael
disc, he had bummed off his
mother a few weeks ago.
Whitney said something like I'm cold.
J.L. said something like I could warm you up.
She smiled stupidly, unsure what that meant.
J.L. took a gamble and reached for
her right breast.
"Oh, no thanks. Just wanted the tea."
"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course," J.L. let out a deep exhale,
his fingers fidgeted,
he cleared his throat,
and with a weak cordial
smile asked,
"Do you mind getting out to push?"
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton