75 Words in Denim and Ivory
The images began to gather like storm clouds when she called

It was raining in the mountains, cold white fog hugged the ground. Around six in the pm a slim woman in dungarees came by to see me. Just dungarees. She is a master of framing her art attractively. You know with the first kiss whether or not there’s a body at home. She let the dungri slide, my hand fluttered up, floating like foam dancing on the crest of a wave, a gray dove released.






