“Your arms are gazelles I have to bring down with my teeth”, said Jacob. Martha stared into the dry throat of her wine glass then glanced toward his mouth like it was a wishing well and she only had lint and yellowed business cards to sacrifice.
“So you’re saying I’m a jugular waiting to paint the bordello of slasher films? That you want to pick me clean like a carcass?” Martha aimed for the knee cap with that one. Mixed metaphors in pick uplines are a clear indicator of the distance the restraining order needs to be or so the bottle of Jim Beam dressed as Martha’s father told her on her sixteenth birthday.
Jacob paused, sketched the next sentence on the back of his teeth like a regional spelling bee champion before saying it slowly for the judges: “National Geographic has nothing on those titties.”
The gallery of Martha’s right hand did not laugh against his cheek nor did she leave the anthrax of a fake phone number incubating in the spine of a matchbook. Jacob and her empty wine glass watched Martha slide off the stool slowly like a lion tamer.