Catch-Up

The bike is a total write-off.  Even worse, my precious red, viscous, life-giving fluid is seeping away slowly into the arid sand.  My mind is swirling, consciousness fading and returning, as I recall how the evening had started.

She’d met me at the door, flushed and perspiring slightly, her voluptuous curves startlingly accentuated by the dim light in the porch doorway, and I could hardly wait to get my hands on her ripe fruit, to sink my teeth into their juicy flavoursome flesh.

But I knew that Diana was cheating on me;  it had become obvious as soon as she got down to her seventeenth consecutive set of lacy French underwear.  And that was after losing ten or twelve sweaters and scarves and three or four layers of footwear to my skilful Poker.   It was fortunate that I too had had the presence of mind to prepare in advance, and even more so that my recent trip to New Guinea in search of exotic ketchup formulations had given me the opportunity to acquire a large stock of even more exotic articles, in the shape of clothing for the gentleman’s person from the New Guinea Highlands.

Thus it was that after many hours of play, I threw on one or two of my shirts and staggered out into the morning mist, laden down with my considerable booty.  No doubt I should have been more careful;  and no doubt I should have been suspicious when Diana had gone outside at 3am, ostensibly to feed the horses, for on her return I glimpsed her shiftily sliding an oily spanner into the back pocket of her third-from-last pair of scanty shorts.

Alas, it's far too late for retrospective regrets;  my Deux-Catties Racer is ruined, my trigger-finger fractured and the only Kosher English Fish-and-Chip Shop in Montana is going to have to do without an entire month’s supply of Diana’s Premier Tomato Ketchup.

Copyright © Donnie Ross 2010