I think of short skirts.
Oh come on, you had to have seen that coming!
I remember the first time, as a hormone-drenched teenage boy, my girlfriend wore a short skirt.
Now, as a fine American hot-blooded young man, I had an appreciation for girls in short skirts. However, short skirts should come with a warning label:
IF YOU WEAR THIS
YOUR BOYFRIEND WILL
TURN INTO AN IDIOT
So there she was, prancing out of her house (this girl liked to prance), in a short skirt.
Jenny (named changed to protect the guilty): “What are you staring at?”
“Uh, sorry. That’s a great skirt.”
“Ok, you’re still staring,” she said.
At this point, I give myself a little shake. “Sorry, it’s just that, I can be sitting right by you and place my hand on your thigh and, you know, connect with actual flesh.”
“It’s like candy without the wrapper!”
“You know, I can be sitting right by you and my fist can connect with your face.”
Heh. Jenny was always the spunky one.
Anyway, where I was going with this? Oh ya: The short story contest I’m entering actually has a June deadline, not May as I mistakenly thought.
So I am still working on that sucker, which is good, because I blew past my deadline suffering through the MAN COLD.
It’s turning out to be darker than I was thinking. The short, not the cold. That’s mostly over. The cold that is.
Sadly, there are no short skirts in my short, but there is prancing.