. Eyelids fluttering, she seemed to return to me. Click-click. Mirror, walls, hair, cheeks, nipples, all was like a dripping Dali painting. Choice: attend the feet or wake up half the Via Veneto and seek shoes until dawn. Since they weighed at least eight ounces, Squoots had them sent. Now it was ready to grow oranges in Israel. . . Prego! This was definitely Squoot. Moschino . Click-click. In her thrashing, Squoots knocked over a box: Biagiotti, stiletto, size 8, umber. . Since they weighed at least eight ounces, Squoots had them sent. . Click-click. A fuck is a fuck. Oouchf! Now knowing there was no way out, I rolled to a sitting position. Back at the Ambasciatori Palace on the Via Veneto, Squoots said her feet still hurt. . I must be with an imposter. Can’t be too anxious. Did the God Damn Salmon swim two fuckin’ hundred miles just for some fresh fucking seaweed? ‘Piss off.’
‘Oouchh!’ This fuckin’ kick hurt. . Excuse me, this is a class place: Tap.
