Okay, I’ll go first By: Francine Witte
It was around the time I was a piano mammal. Playing for tips at the local pub. I’d sleep until 5 in the afternoon, throw on my thrift store tux and slump down 52nd street.
This particular night, a bachelorette party. The bride a tad mature. At least 50, and that’s being kind. She was wearing a tiara, and plopped herself next to me on the bench. Had a few too many and her hands inappropriate. Her bridesmaids, a flutter of bygone butterflies, blue eyeshadow, droopy lids and floppy bat arms.
Your last night of freedom, the bridesmaids were sing-songing, and nudging her towards me. The stubborn man-ache starting up in my pants, and the two of us ending up in the scabby men’s room. The high-pitch giggle of the bridesmaid outside the door where any other time, there would have been music
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© Eve Packer: IMG_5072
© Eve Packer: IMG_5072
