DANCING TO VIOLINS
“Glinda, why you look so worried?”
“I never done this before.”
“Me neither. Probably never will. Naked pics?”
“No, they are called nude frontals. But only the top part.”
“Top Parts, you mean.”
“Did you say Pop Tarts?!”
“No! But, well, that might be nice…”
“Shut the hell up and keep your eyes on the dirt.”
“Oh, I am, baby. Hehehe”
“You’re not helping, Will.”
My little Celica stopped quietly in front of an old, forgotten structure out in the off-skirts of the Sans Joking high desert river valley that held the megalopolis of Fuckno, as well as Baker’s Field, and a shitty hole called “Los Banos,” which means “The Bathrooms” in Hispanish.
The shack had once been somebody’s home.
Now it looked to be the sort of place where someone might have planted bodies in the dry desert dust, never hoping for them to rise.
No wonder Glinda wanted me to be there with her.