Tango with Myself

My approach is unconventional.  It’s a ten-step approach alright, with bowling ball held slightly higher than my waist for extra power.  But my ten steps are more like a cha-cha, a strip tease, a furious one-woman tango with myself … it’s ten steps of molten hot boogety bowling ballroom dancing. 

 

But if my ten-step approach is Mardi Gras, then the strict discipline of my ball release is the Lent that follows.  The dance is gone.  I am a simple machine.  My arm swings and I wait for the downward tug on my shoulder socket – the completion of the arc.  Then, a slight twist of the wrist to finish, and that girlish golden orb is now a curve ball that kills.

 

My ball barrels down the lane.  Cold, calculating assassin.

 

Then I hear her.

 

“You can aim perfectly, babeeeeeeeee, and still end up in the gutter.”

 

Bitch!  I knew she would come!  In fact, every single pin at the end of the alley is bottle-shaped version of Her!  Ten slutty Jezebels regarding me with their twenty almond eyes.  Ten tiny mouths speak in a bowling pin choir.

 

“This is for knocking out Frito, babeeeeeee.”  The pins have my ball trapped.  “Biiiiiiiiiiig mistake.”

 

My golden ball is hurtling back at me.  I dive to avoid the oncoming missile but they already anticipated my move and I take it deep in my belly.  My lungs collapse.  I can’t pull any air into my chest.  Drowning people suck water into their lungs at this point in the death process, but I don’t even have that pleasure.    

 

Darkness. 

 

Everything is becoming the same thing.

 

Then a pair of red lips from outer space fix themselves softly on my mouth.   They blow a swirling whirlwind into my lungs –  fluttering pink balloons opening up to receive it.  The lips taste like grape jelly.  And the lips form words.  And the words string into something that makes sense in my mind.

 

“Biiiiiiiiig mistake.  You need lesson in knowing who it is can help you, and who it is can hurt you.”