SonOfWill

Jail

Donald Barthelme and I sat in the parlor, drinking, falling more and more in love with our respective ladies.  He kept asking me if the invasion would return.  I said the indians were done—though it might be the vikings.  “Sylvia,” he said and drank.

Saad provided the scotch, and pointed out the woman with the red hair.  We explained to him that she did not matter in the end.  On his insistence we invited her over for a drink; but she refused.  I expect Saad will fall in love with one of her sisters.

Our conversation drifted to responsibilities.  I discolsed that I had lacked in my fence building yesturday. 

“A fenshe is a shymbol,” he said, but threw me in brig anyway, for we are at war time.