it's

Twelve eighteen aaaay m. I haven't been able to sleep since I went to sleep. It got me to thinking about smug types(permanent scowl even behind a smile), gliding on the highways in their sleek SLKs. They are not sleek. Leathery from too much sun. Or golf. Maybe she fell asleep drunk one afternoon, belly up and out, splayed on the all weather Lloyd Flanders rattan chaise lounge on the Terazzo patio.

She doesn't smoke anymore, but once in a while yearns for her salad days as the Queen of Pall Mall. She thinks of graying sexy sixty year old men, men who work with their hands, men who are older, vibrant and sexy and wear construction boots with their shorts, bodies sinewy and brown from working outside.

Her reality is living with Shamu. Her reality is too many t shirts tucked into elasticized shorts whose waistbands define nothing, white socks pulled high, plump toes tucking into a pair of Florsheim's in the summer.

The tops are down.