Girl
with the Typewriter Dies
attempting to help her old friend
Nathan brand his new mail order
business. Fruit, he says, to which
he replies 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.
