Here is a picture of Mary, Queen of Scotch, on casual Friday
Maryly Maryly Maryly Maryly life is but a dream.
Vincent Pritchard is new to our site, coaxed into the playground by our own Diana Diehl… The more the Maryer.
Vincent calls his entry into our Wingnuts contest, which ends June 10
Last night, I had a woman with over-sized glasses ask me where her kids were. I told her half of what Mary whispered: In a red-roofed house by the south bypass (jumbled and tangled in black garbage bags). The night before, an old man with too many cigarette burns on his fingers asked what would happen if he left his wife: She will move to Barcelona and become an actress (on a stage where men come and go but she stays forever).
Tonight, though, a young girl asked what the meaning of her life was. I waited, but Mary only whispered three words: “I can’t see.” I told the girl I would be back, had to have a piss.
Mary explained. “I don’t know what it is about this girl, but she is blank. Or closed. I cannot trace her threads. That has only ever happened with you.”
“So what do I tell her?”
I walked back out of the bathroom, brushing my hands on my pants. “Guess I’ll just have to wing it.”
The girl sat patiently as I returned. I sighed.
Make it up.
“Your life is different,” I began. “You are something special, I guess. The answers for you are going to sound strange, but–”
She cleared her throat. “I am sorry, but I was told this was a one-on-one deal. Who is she?” she asked, indicating over my shoulder.
I swallowed hard.
“You… can see her?”