Go on a date with a woman. A nine hundred and forty-seven-year old woman. Meet her at a lounge with a secret door. One where you pick up on other people’s conversations.
Choose one with a classy name like The Federal Reserve. Listen to her go on and on about tricking people into war. She’ll lay her head on your thighs, looking up as if she sees through the wooden beams of the converted Cathedral, gazing at the stars, pretending to turn
those
lights on and off with her fingers. When she
caresses
your thighs with fingernails, notice glitter on them shaped as an Eye. She’ll say every single bet’s in your favor. When she gets up to powder her nose in the W.C., double phoenix like a solar flare flies from her exposed lower back.
— You can check out Sean Bronson’s other works on his website at bronsonsean.blogspot.com and Twitter is @seanbronsonism. He works as an English teacher for foreign students. During his free time, he likes to travel. He was born and raised in Los Angeles, California.