Tall Sally

A particularly obnoxious gurgle of the innards makes his presence unwantingly felt by the object next door, a tall spectacular who stoically votes against reaction — which of course makes it all the worse. In due moments, the seat-scraping begins, and everyone's empty. He's over the moon. He takes a daisy from the root, sniffs TV-taught sniff, then plucks, one-by-one, to the tune of Forget Me Not. The answer is affirmed. His sin of the flesh, of being born, has been forgiven (forgotten?) for this stroke, and he's not likely to do anything but seize (and hopefully something other than up). Of course, that's banking on superstition, something which he obsessively disbelieves while obsessively throwing scrunched up bits of paper into wastepaper bins, and is not, he knows, as concrete as a wonderfully firm Yes.

"Hello, lady. How's about ditching those seven blokes you share for this one?"
"That sounds reasonable. How's today sound?"
"Coming from your vocal cords, heavenly."
"Oh stop."
"I'll try, darling. I'd ask you to stop being so lovely as to induce such pap, but I prefer it that way."
"I can see you do. So where shall we wander?"
"You tell me."
"I tell you what?"
"You tell me to kiss you."
"I do?"
"You do."
"Oh all right."
"..."
"Not on the lips."