Scarfing the Silhouettes
Scarfing along, she stillettoed down the road, gleaming. There was no end to what she could imagine doing to him. She would glass him, ice cube him, soufflé him, bolognaise him and then she would macramé his testicles onto the bedpost. Perhaps papier-mâchéing would be better….
The cat running along her side smiled, scarfing her claws in delight. Her diamante collar caratted brightly and her whiskers canaped with delight. Yes, she too would purr him and glance him with her piercings.
The bus was late as always. It arrived panting in yellowness. The advert on its side toothpasting everyone in a smile. The driver, as always, was barefooting it to work, undeoderised and halitosing, and if that was not enough, his hair pointed humourlessly at his bald patch, greasing morosely.
She latteed on board, and gave him her money with cinnamon fingers. He ticketed rapidly, intercommed his departure, and whooshed the door. The cat hissed and furred, shredding his left shank with her claws – then she hairended her stalk dismissively. The driver, totally beet rooted, and feeling very pinnapple, geared sharply, glassing the curve ahead with apparent nonchalance though he secretly petuniad.
‘Yes’, she cappuccinoed, flicking images past the window, she would certainly not sugar around this time. This time it would be full lathering before she pebbled the room with her words. She would certainly crevice this time. Full bouldering. No more penning and scissorcing. No more excuses. He would either pencil her in or she would shoe-lace him, curtain him and then carpet him fully. And she was not souffléing words, either!