Queen Tush rolled up the driveway honking the horn of her powder blue pickup. She oozed out from behind the wheel in a black velveteen slit-up-the-side number.
My first thought was, "Where's Elvis?" Then I recognized the dress from her gothchick nuptials.
I said, "Queen, what are you doing in your wedding gown?"
She modeled almost twisting out of her red high-heeled sandals.
"Don't you love it, Bud? Isn't this the fun-est thing?" She stuffed back her right boobage as it made a run for it. "It still fits." Queen Tush batted her raccoon eyes.
"Still fits" maybe in Queen's magic mirror. Those seams better be reinforced. The red lipstick overshot her mouth; black roots teased peroxide straw. I glanced down skipping the scary bits. The terminal digit of each toe, including the nail, was painted at one with the red sandals.
I said, "Hon, you are a sight! Where you headed?"
She shrugged, "Over to Scooter's. Taking him my squash casserole. His old lady is down to the Eastern Star in Savannah. Kids are off at their Maw-maw and Paw-paw's. Thought I'd be neighborly."
Her neighborliness smelled like she'd mugged Earline, the Avon Lady. From the unidentifiable lumps, I envisioned the squash casserole stashed under her skirt.
She cooed, "Listen, Bud, I was wondering." She flirted, "You boys spare some eggs?"
Fringe benefit of two men living together. You get called "boys" into senescence.
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