The cane, the clutch and the curler.
I found a cane near the laundry basket. The color was the darkest shade of brown etched with unknown markings. I tried it on and I was dumbfounded, I could not hold it properly with swag. It stood almost four and a half feet, too long for my height. But I persevered and tried to walk with a limp. I thought if my leg be wilted, I’d better start practicing. I wondered if it sheathed a sword. My father said it belonged to my great-grandfather. He was tall. He may have whacked people with it.
It reminded me of House.
The Capital C Clutch
The coupé in a standstill, I unlocked and went in. It started, blaring sultry rumbling hums to my ears. The handbrake being the hindrance to the stationary state, I brought it down with a poke and a caress. But, the clutch. The sensual and deliberate push to first gear, I have not accelerated. I have been compelled to pull the handbrake up again, going back to neutral with the clutch. Then I pushed it and shifted the gear. Just pushed and shifted without moving. Slowly, like a smooth driver. The Clutch. The word deserves the capital. The Clutch is cool.
My Neighbor’s Curlers
Mrs. Betty was plump and unyielding. She bore pink curlers all around her head. I didn’t understand. She had a pageboy cut, how she filled the curlers with hair, I didn’t know. But her face was the greenest green a face mask could offer. It made her skin glow like the Grinch. I walked nearer and peeked at her window. Her face devoid of the green gunk, she amassed a hefty amount of make-up. She applied so much and slept. She had to work early and would not want to be late. And she wants to be beautiful when asleep.