A story about a naked woman with an apple in her mouth. Not Eve. The one once on my bed, turned flat on her stomach. I held it in front of her mouth and asked her take a bite. Then she craned her head back to kiss me.
He said he was submitting it to the Atlantic. I told him I'm not sure they do fiction much these days. But it happened, he cried. Yeah. Yeah.
And burlesque dancers have eight identities. One for them. Seven for us. I defeated an Australian heckler. Then wondered about my own.
Everyone is the funniest person in the world sitting on a bar stool. I told him.
