Describing Andy
His name is Andy. He has a crooked dick. He gets mad at
you when you don’t return his Tupperware on time. He will give you small
portions of under cooked meat in these Tupperware. He tells jokes. He tells
jokes I don’t get. He will tell jokes and jokes. I miss the queue to laugh. I
miss the punch line. He calls his most recent ex-wife a cunt whore bag. Other times as my
old lady. He mentions her once or twice, only when he’s received an
official letter for unpaid medical bills from an attorney, citing, we aren’t really divorced, she won’t sign
the papers.
He keeps talking about how he was younger and he’d get
four chicks at once. One during the week. Two on the weekends. And one once a
month. He said he was a fucking machine. That he loved women. And they loved
him. He smiles past me as if looking deeply.
He tells crazy sex women stories. Some I don’t believe. He
is part Native American. His father had a temper and drank. He drinks. But he
doesn’t have a temper. He has salt at his stove top, not his table. He has pepper hair. His skin is mixed with
earth, olive not olive, leather thickened with bison something, no not at all,
rose and pale or yellow but greenish. I have never seen it before. Don’t ask me
to describe it again.
Here are a grouping of some photographs in honor of Valentine's Day.
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