THAT KIND OF PARTY. | By: Terry Collett | | Category: Short Story - Chronical Bookmark and Share


It was not that kind
Of party it was
More of an orgy,

Well thatís what it seemed,
Max says, thinking back,
Trying to tell his

Latest girlfriend why
Heíd been late, and she
Laying on the bed

Reading Hemmingway,
Looks up at him with
That oh, yes, of course

It was, kind of stare,
But says nothing, but
Turns over a page

With that flick of her
Fingers betraying
Her deep annoyance,

The red nailed fingers
Doing the Iíll scratch
Her eyes out if I

Ever find her, kind
Of motion. You know
I wouldnít have gone

If Roudeux hadnít
Insisted it was
For new writers to

Find publishers, Max
Goes on, allowing
His voice to proceed

As he makes his way
To the other side
Of the bed, watching

His woman follow
Him with her big blue
Eyes, the Hemmingway

Forgotten, the book
Face down on the bed
Covers. Who was she?

The girlfriend asks, what
Did she look like? Was
She all over you

Like the pox? You know
Me, Baby, Iím a
One woman man; I

Wouldnít even look
At another dame
While I have you, Max

Says, sitting down on
The bed, looking at
The bookís title, For

Whom the Bell Tolls, in
Large print. Shame about
Hem, Max says, picking

Up the book, to go
Blasting his head off
Like that, must have had

The Black Dog blues real
Bad. The girlfriend turns
Over with her nude

Back to Max, her cute
Little ass seeming
To say closed down for

Business; donít knock or
Ring just go away.

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