Slurpee tits

Yeah, yesterday late at night I went into the 7-11 to buy maybe Doritos or some other discount item, and it came to my attention that this very nervous guy was also present in the store. As he walked past me to the Slurpee machine, his right arm tic-ed briefly but sharply in front of his face, and so I thought to myself, "Huh! I guess he has the insanes." He filled two of the small yellow cups, looking away as he did so, and moved them to the glittering aluminum coffee kiosk.

Then he grabbed two pairs of straws, one each regular and Slurpee, which I could see clearly because he held them in the air, and stuck them in the drinks; however, they were too tall, so he cut one in half with his bright red art knife on the plastic surface of a ladder someone was examining the ceiling with. The store employees were charitable and let him, presumably because they were sympathetic. He used the pieces of that.

As he walked back, he stopped between the cashier and the mirror (directly in front of me), and put the Slurpees down to pull his shirt up to his armpits, revealing not only an undershirt, but the two ingenious pockets sown into it! He fitted one in each pocket, slipped his shirt back down over them, and left without paying.

I watched with the most absolute delight. I asked the cashier, who said she hadn't noticed. So I guess it works. That's the story of Slurpee tits.

"Burning Chrome"

I bought a copy of William Gibson's short story collection, "Burning Chrome", and it's really good; certainly it's better than I remember it was. The book itself smells like volatile iron. I associate the smell with him; a lot of his books smell like that.

My own past had gone down years before, lost with all hands, no trace. I understood Fox's late-night habit of emptying his wallet, shuffling through his identification. He'd lay the pieces out in different patterns, rearrange them, wait for a picture to form. I knew what he was looking for. You did the same thing with your childhoods.

In New Rose, tonight, I choose from your deck of pasts.

I choose the original version, the famous Yokohama hotel-room text, recited to me that first night in bed. I choose the disgraced father, Hosaka executive. Hosaka. How perfect. And the Dutch mother, the summers in Amsterdam, the soft blanket of pigeons in the Dam Square afternoon.