Stilettos

Stilettos




The fuckin’ Times was a lousy pillow at best. At worst, it became a lumpy, smelly bag of bumps.

I pulled my hood over my head, snuck down into my roll.

The clicks woke me.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Not polite, y’ know, like loafers or tennies. No. Fuckin’ attitude.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

I didn’t need this shit. Not now, not ever. I divorced this crap.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

What the fuck you plannin’ on? Living in my fuckin’ face.

They stopped.

The clicks quit.

Going into my hood, I headed down.

Oouchf! Fuck! One god damn pointy kick in the fuckin’ ribs.

Squinting, I looked up. Looked up legs that went to the fuckin’ moon.

Legs that ended inside a micro-skirt swathed in darkness framed by the fuckin’ sun.

‘Hey, bozo.’

What the fuck . . .? ‘Piss off.’

‘Oouchh!’ This fuckin’ kick hurt.

The bitch was lucky she was wearin’ stilettos or I’d stomp her ass.

‘Wasssiat?’

‘Up.’

Up! Fuck ‘up’! I was fuckin’ tired. I drifted.

‘OouchhH!!’ Fuck, that hurt.

‘Squoots!’ Hadda be fuckin’ Squoots.

Now knowing there was no way out, I rolled to a sitting position.

‘Where’re the God Damn keys?’

‘I don’t have any ‘God Damn’ keys.’

‘OOouuchhH!` Right in the fuckin’ nuts!

‘The Corniche, you miserable asshole, the Corniche.’

‘You gottem.’

‘Aaargghh!’ I might never walk upright again, let alone screw.

Claws. The manicure ended in claws: claws that had my groin in a love ‘em or lose ‘em grip; ‘don’t screw with me, you burned out whoreson of a weasel. Gimme the fuckin’ keys.’

God, take me here. I do not need to live through this. Hell hath no fury like that a former Jewish princess.

‘You got the house, you got the beach house, you got the chateau, you got my wine cellar, you got the kids (okay, so I won one), you got my broker, you got the matching Rolls, whydiya need the Bentley?’

‘I could care less for that piece of crap. I just want you shouldn’t have it.’

God, I wanted her.

I remembered buying the shoes: Milan, spring two years, Squoots had a fuckin’ mini I couldn’t have used as a hankie, silk hose that would drive a butterfly to masturbation.

Sinking lower in the chair she said, ‘Più piccolo, per favore.’ Good choice, with the view the venditore was enjoying, the only thing that could possibly get smaller was the shoe.