Miss ButterLouisa Spaventa
I said "Invincible" she said, "why do you think I'm invisible?" She'd whirled her skirt, bingo-yellow, high, buttery cheekbones, blonde, non-sticking face. Milkmaidish and waiting for a churn, a post-coitus nap upon a piping biscuit. I said, "No one likes a dry potato." She showed me parcels of salt and milk. I bought a covered dish and even a small, flat fork. I sliced my wallet in two and dropped it in the toaster. She giggled as bills burnt, she whirled her naked hair. I lay on my back and tried to melt beside her.
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