This is from a much larger short fiction story. Each section corresponds to a piece of music. In theory, this would be a top 25 New York Times hit and come with a corresponding soundtrack at your local Borders or Barnes & Noble. For the time being, just let the words guide you.
Interlude: “City Approach,” Grandadbob
It’s a balmy Friday night, three weeks from graduation, 11:13pm. The air is hot and thick like fat billowy fuzz bass. Three girls stand in front of Commons, ears glued to their cell phones, swaying sleek bodies to the muffled bass emanating from the café. Blonde, brunette and redhead–each coif touched by trendy $400 contrasting highlights. They flaunt sexy hair cascading over porcelain shoulders, always falling pristinely back into place after the breeze flows through. By day, these dames are strikingly attractive, stripper-pole ready, but clad in baggy track pants and oft-matching jackets that hide well-toned and tanned 32C-22-30 physiques, always puffing Virginia Slims with fervor directly in front of doorways. Tonight, they turn it up in tube tops revealing perfect, sinewy Maxim-girl abs with neo-punk can-can girl skirts low enough to showcase pelvic indentations at the base of the spine and short enough for free peeks at the cookie after a slight bend. Suddenly, I can only hear cosmic bubbles popping over electro guitar riffs and dueling vox hooks. Absinthe green lights descend from the trees and everything goes into European proofing. The music shimmies and swaggers with an air that rings of French house and that cool lounge shit you’d hear at a grand opening of a swanky South Beach boutique. It’s contagious, makes me want to buy a new cell phone and replace all hellos with HelloMotos. The girlies are moving in time to my beat, making eye contact and come hither fingers like they want to give it a go. Just what kinda go they wanna give it, I don’t know but I’m looking at them like “you don’t want nunna this, can’t handle it.” I don’t know if they want me to dance with them, dance against them or what. Defying my words, they put hands on knees and proceed to drop booty as if this were an impromptu casting call for a Nelly video. They snap their phones up, drop them daintily in Louis Vuitton handbags and walk into Commons. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
“Stab, stab, stab.”
“Leave those heffas alone.”
I couldn’t say anything else. I’m pretty sure he wanted to bone at least one of them…if he didn’t already.
