Of course it means war, roaring waves coursing listlessly in the distance. When the pods delved deep I invested in a pair of raw denim slacks that had been sewn in the 60s and left to desiccate in a storage locker just off 30. Ted, an anemic pole with protruding knees, sold me the contents at auction for what felt a reasonable sum, and after succumbing to curiosity I tore open the cardboard sarcophagus and claimed my prize, which sit low and tight across my dimpled hips, accentuating my stature and bolstering my standing amongst the who’s who’s who haunt the dives that dot the frontage roads on the outskirts of town.
Without missing a beat, Ted leaned in and whispered a fortune to my rapt ears, pressing a prophecy into my forearm with white knuckles, and as I careened downtown in the dark his hot crisp murmurs lurked in the membranes of my digits and the cobwebs in the back seat.
The next week I headed North, inventing an urgent appointment and breathlessly running every stop sign in the speed trap ghost towns that still inhabit the patches of corn and forest in the forgotten pages of the atlas. By the time I reached my destination, the garment had been chewed through by the moths and rodents I keep for company, though given the unseasonable balminess of the afternoon, I didn’t mind at all, and luxuriated in the sensation of aerodynamic acquiescence between my thighs.
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