His face contorted and began to fall into itself, like a soufflé that had spontaneously combusted, it got red and slightly bloated, then deflated to the point where his nose was barely noticeable from underneath his quivering lips. He sputtered then stuttered something incoherent and then simply told me to go straight to hell and stormed out of the room.
I doubted that I was the first person to remark upon the state of his equipment.
I didn’t care if it was a business arrangement. In order for me to maintain my business I must maintain my health. Given the pitiful condition of the aforementioned apparatus, I could not and would not accommodate client forty-seven and his rather pedestrian request that I “fellate him and then deposit the excretion in the baby food jar” he brought to capture the particular moment of exuberance.
Flank steak, onions, green peppers and tortillas. The 57th Street market would be open after client 48 and I’d been thinking about fajitas since Marcy and I had margaritas at Tejas earlier before work. Marcy slayed me with her stories of her nieces and the dress up party they held for her. Cotton candy colored bows in their hair and a mini-tea set, Marcy so loved being an auntie.
I wasn’t much the auntie type. As far as I knew, my brother wasn’t married. It might have been nice to be an auntie.
Two more clients, then I could eat. A girl has got to eat.