A Morsel of Innocence

Breugel watched a new generation of adolescence once: (he was a dirty old ghost watching buggerly, etc., two young lovers, etc.):

"What a lovely spider-fall," is what she said. Tithing carefully not to slip too far below the parsnips. They were walking along an unimpressive stoop of little houses which may have been suburban or rural. And oh yes so many Japanese hybrids but none enough to equal the sheer volume of Sportus-Utilitatoruses of the genus Vehiculus. They were white, black , gray, blue, champagne, nearly all sensible colors although a teensy bopper drove a purple bug here or there, and a great yellow jeep perhaps; daddy's hot fuck fantasy in xmas bonus roadsters or lesabre convertible; "or were they too feminine?" she asked again, now tithing more daringly. Rather than answer, he gripped her hand and let it speed into the warmth of his own happy blood. And perhaps their pulses would circade together.
Though, as Breugel could see, she never felt more alone.

Prochaine: La petite Babiole qui se trouve presque à la peine de morte.