We, our own meals.

My Bonnie lied over an ocean. This was well after sea going liners, the only ones we’ve been acquainted with thus far have panty was a prefix. Her introduction of course, through overstays when overwear required them. Poor Clyde, this really isn’t about me. In the Venn Diagram of things, his displacement is a subset of over-fammiliarity  and over-airing in the heartfelt dirty laundry quadrant. Leaving the dear boy looking like the lines of washed out tighty-whities he does on tuesday mornings.

Bleach considered, all purity requires a stopper, ‘holds fast’ on this bottle anyways. A cap  of all interpretations to seal the overpowering of the head. Formaldehyde for innocence. Thats was his breakfast thought over the ungodly bluish-white of lo-fat, no cream as it begged unreservedly for its cornflake love. To fall, plummet from carton high and lie afloat, till the ebbing laps edge. Till the longing ebbs. Clyde’s rather, the melamine cereal bowl was quiet. He is the foremost authority in saline stew. Describing its snaking streams in the dense lo-everything, high protein; triumph as it finds its whey and builds one up. This might have been vaguely punny if he didn’t say everything with eyes of dark matter. It made me giggle over washing dishes that he was the Large Haldron Collider incarnate- over-budget, back-rubbed, blow-jobbed, looking for the god-particle to jumpstart the next phase of his development.

Prosecco pops. Its isn’t even lunch, its fizz a normalcy check. He’s charming if you wrapped him in burnt dark orange dough. Bits of minced smithereens reformed in stretched skin. No buxom burrito will bray for him, repulsed by the charm of a premature foot-long. As we sip, the bubbles burnt like blinking in chlorine. Clyde chilled, filtered. Too many drinks tides his fast flow.