Vivianne plates a dish that Carlos distastes. The salt is white picket fenced and tempting like the grass which shall not be passed. Carlos the tawny wildebeest wheezes and snorts. “Do you say, Plum,” he begins the dinner banter, “that I won’t take your queen in three easy moves?” Steam rises from his head. Black snout musty drooler. “You couldn’t find my queen if she were a glam drag at a pope convene.” Vivianne had golden mucus on her fingertips. Carlos, advancing his age and sense,” Your smell gives you away. I don’t need to see. I don’t need to hear. I will find your queen snuggled between bishops and pop you out!” Outside, the desert was mountainous and engorged. Inside, Vivianne was now older, placing a stale record sleeve beneath her nose.
The mexican man was seven foot tall now as he dragged his cowboy boots lightly over the plush rust colored carpet. From under his wide brimmed hat, the big man caught a hug off-guard. Plastic pear wood veneer peeled at the corners of the hi-fi cabinet as vinyl Eydie snapped and popped and hissed. The thick flacotti rug was white and groomed, tempting her into the cavernous space between Juarez, life and death.