Play Me

This socially inept woman creature appears to be the same nose of a person I met before if I can recall her name or possibly his, whichever matters little to me anymore. Blue and white is the color; there are people who miserably imitate those I knew. What am I doing here? I believe to be working yet can only recall a few instances; every other is indifferent of differentiation.

They call her Rosalinda Rodriguez; her unusually black hair reminds me of acetone threads for dresses inside New Orleans' counter cultured shops, those black eyes are graphically enhanced to depict a sheath of color without pupils or regulatory features, the body is a suit, but that damned nose cannot be hidden. She bothers me quite a bit; I do admit from an indirect experience.

"Did you make her food?"

"She doesn't eat."

"I know. I made her green pea blend with Pompeian white wine and almonds. I brewed the concoction inside flax seed oil."

"Why did you make her food?"

"She doesn't eat."

"I know. I made her potato flat bread with soy milk. I baked it with extra virgin olive oil. Will you make the sauce Cocoa Nut?"

"I shall.....do you think she eats it?"

"I wonder that myself."

"Did she eat it?"

"No! It's still in the refrigerator."

This man is hideous, grotesque, with a flinch of latex flaking from what is supposed to be a face.

"Do you have a thing for Rosalinda?"

He is disgusted; why does he retort a question which makes him vomit loudly inside the restroom?

"Which one is that again?"

Thad forgets how to role play; boredom is bad theatrical performances.

She returns with a full grain motorcycle leather jacket with the word "lucidity" embossed in painted characters; a picture of a pink half orb with blue tear drop outlines an entity belonging to a sailor grasping the shirt ring of a lost child balancing the brink of coastal dread.

"She jumped in....."

"You rescued me!"

"I cannot believe she did that."

"I do."

"Miss."

"Yes..."

"Please allow me to finish this last paragraph."

"But..."

"Would you like me to pronounce an official bond?"

"I do."

"I know you do."

"I really do."

"I know."

"He's my Beau."

"Yes Dear he is..."

"I desire him to be my husband."

"Oh dear."

"I do."

"I know."

"What were you saying?"

"She said you asked her what kind of parts she had down there."

Not exactly.....

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

If this country is a trap of language barriers pretending not to speak a common language will pronounce a stereotype correctly.

A hand thrusts an obvious portion of clothing exposing nothing at all; I am not attracted, there is nothing in my pants. Brownish red circulates the atmosphere as I clarify a crystal ball.

"I'm married.....do you know what that means?"

Rosalinda, the name irritates my nostrils, motions an empty finger for a groom's hand; she charades the cynicism of engaging a ring. Purple is the color of an ego gone mad.

"You looked through my bag pack.....you looked through my things.....did you see the picture? That's my husband, her name is Catrixenya. We have children together, five or six."

She looks to be out of context for a script she writes and directs.

"We have lots of sex."

I watch her in a pair of jeans to chained belt, open leather jacket for a greasy white wife beater, a chest of accidental braggadocio, silly belly, stomping a left leg to foot of Circa demons, boasting a Bradley laugh; how in bloody hell did she do that?

Sexual Harassment is a rarity due to the sensitive nature of sexual conflict. If at any moment one confronts a person knowingly prying through their personal life, the situation becomes detrimental and lawsuit worthy. Best case scenario is to be up front and leave; if a business or institution is at stake the law may be deviated for either party.

"Did you stop her from buying weed?"

"She gets this shit laced with cocaine."

"How did you find out?"

"Ambrosia saw her at an apartment."

"What was he doing there?"

"Switching portraits for display."

"There must be some pieces left."

"I know."

"I would not of done it."

"You would of....."

"How so...?"

"There was a child."

A pest control agent sprays a mist close to their senses as he assures me the job will get rid of unwanted infestations; he eyes the two men with such intent.

"It's none of your business what they do outside of work."

"It's dangerous....."

"I know it is."

"We cannot stop her."

"Amber did not even know until the child spoke."

"What did the child speak of?"

"That the woman curses about a lion's mistress then performs oral.....acts."

"Not worth it."

"She pays with American currency."

"I had enough of her shit."

"Somebody cut her across the face."

"Really....."

"It healed."

"Interesting....."

"What is next?"