He’s a player they say, debonaire, zoot suit, melon-colored upholstery, and uber pointy shoes to push up in the crannies. When he enters a room, he waits until he sees everyone looking in his direction. Except her, what’s wrong with her… he voices loud enough for those clamouring around to hear, his chin cocked in her direction. Heads swivel – the madame is disinterested, clearly. Her arms folded in a vice grip, engrossed in conversation with no one as important as he. Her loss, he mutters with a flick of his wrist. But he can’t stop looking… she’s got pointy shoes too, embossed with rigour. They flick like the second hand on a grandfather clock. The rhythm has him hooked. "Tick Tock" was published in Scapegoat Review December, 2023
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