Girl with the Typewriter Dies
attempting to help her old friend
Nathan brand his new mail order
business. Fruit, he says, to which
he continues: lime, watermelon,
strawberry. Socko! she
thinks, having always
loved him. Red sun,
purple pickle, he says,
and he isn’t just waxing
poetic. As the evening
progresses at each word he
enunciates, she lets out a
lollipop – just a tiny mumbled
vapor – and then in a sort of
backwards fashion, as if via
the tops of both sets of
knuckles at the ends of
her short, cartoon-like
arms, she tries
to plug her
mouth with
an imaginary
one.
