oots and flannel loggers' pants--reminded me of:Kenny Auster, whose wolfhound would eat cake 'til it busted. Evenings sometimes a frousy halfdrunk woman would get past the old guard and peel in the door of the shack and beckon one of the men out into the foggy darkness behind the latrines somewhere. There were a pair of cotton shorts between us and that was all. The ginger-haired carny was hollering atthem now, she was telling them that if they broke anything inside they'dhave to give up the goods.
When they got to the theater Eleanor hurried down to the ladies' room to see if her eyes had got red. That's theother side to me, Mike I'm sure, I said. I was in the zone with what she was saying (thewriter her fuck-buddy)and what was under what she was saying. All that should have rung true, and yet somehow it didn't, quite.
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