We kept close to the shed to avoid the neighbor's attention. Sally contrived her dragonhead pipe, a pipe made from the smoothest glass blown from blue flame and encrusted with confetti enamel. She preloaded it with her potent number one, who she claimed was the best of all her samples, and packed it in under the blue dancing whimsy of night's four winds.
The shed only housed a few inanimate objects, two of them being a pair of old steel framed bicycles striped down to quicksilver simplicity. Quicksilver like the moot mood of faces held previously by the lantern light as night fell on the previous celebration. A celebration of the summer nights of friends old and new. The world spinning within itself through the eyes of beer soaked exultation and uncontrollable laughter.
I want to rectify the scene for a minute under the glow of the first firefly of the summer. Sally was married into my family some years back. She had a cat she carried around town in a rucksack.
Sally was full of regrets and in her hair fell sorrow she swallowed every night
we smoked number one and took the bicycles down to the sleazy bar in town, a place TQ told us to stay away from.
In the bar a giraffe was playing pinball and an alligator swung by the jukebox
a motorbike backfired in the parking lot and all the paper figures fell off the table to the dusty floor.
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