Faded Houses Green

Reading Ulysses in Montana #258

George assembled his zoot suit in what only Ginger would have called a collage. A collage of lint.

Pressed into service, six tadpoles mounted the flights of fancy apples and dappled the neighbor’s house with a fortified filet of George’s best bottle of cognac, brandy being too scarce for daily operations. Ginger had approved half-measures, but they could only go all the way or nowhere.

Something in the hay, she moved to the other side of the strawberry patch, but Ginger never liked strawberries all that much but shortcake was a different story, especially on the day of George’s birthday when Ginger would splurge with the infinite array of whipped cream and strawberry sauce.

Lost in the empty apple barrels of time, the cider looked wider than a barrel of monkeys, strung out in a three-day trip of ecstasy, but why it was not spelled with an ‘x’, George never knew–and never would know considering the role George would play in that regard until the lunch bell rang.

Pangs of grief subsided along the rivers of desire but cautions abound where zoot suits and whipping cream (sold in bulk by his dominatrix) are in the thrall of fortified lint.