i would never call this man grandpapa

i kept leaning in closer, inhaling him -- a combination of ivory soap and cigarettes. he was in his late forties/ early fifties, but there was something about him luring me in. something that made me think that this was more than just an old man. he was my john wayne. my emerson facilities cowboy, tipping his hat and calling me pretty lady. i can hear his spurs before he even enters the room, smelling strong of tabacco and whiskey, he'd throw me on the bed long enough to satisfy himself and then he'd go out to save pretty things on his horse, Rusty and i would be okay with this. living happy with my john wayne.

but instead it's just the jiggle of keys and the plunging of clogged toilets and being thrown on the bed by a plumber has no appeal for me. so i don't say bye when he walks out of the building.  
¶ 9:38 PM |