…under her skin, deep down within her bones, there once lived a very small whimsy named hope, who insisted upon surfacing once in a while to remind she-who-forgot-herself that there was more to life than everything-but. Of course whimsy revealed herself (she felt sure she was female) through any number of disguises, but hope she remained whether hidden behind this thing or that. Hope didn’t wear a moustache the woman noticed and perhaps this was more revealing than the low cut top she had decided to wear this morning. ( She had promised, with whimsy’s extraordinary help, to be fascinated by her own cleavage. )
Riotously so.
‘Contour’ she whispered more than once. ‘Contours.‘
So on this day, as she witnessed the steady migration of the if-but-gang to far flung places where she would never have to feed them again, she switched on her small radio and listened really really hard for whimsy to show herself once more, and to give her a sign. Give me a note she hummed, or a word; a bone deep, knee melting, shiny wet word.
