Vicky Swanky Is a Beauty Read Free

said.
    The toddler acted as if she knew me.
    It’s so interesting when a little person is so clearly distinguished. I can tell—by the superciliary arches above her eyes, the ultra-tiny hands. I regard this visitant as unreal.

HIGHLIGHTS OF THE TWILIGHT
    The clerk reminded me of my dead husband who used to say he was always going around all the time with his penis sticking out and that he didn’t know what to do.
    “Lady!” the clerk said.
    A little old lady jerked herself toward that clerk.
    A motley group of us was looking at a wristwatch and inwardly I prayed I’d see a glow of dancing matter to lead me. I am another little old lady.
    “Mrs. Cook,” a clerk said, “are you here to have some fun?”
    This is a shop with a bird on a branch in diamonds and pearls, a ruby-eyed dog, a ram’s head, a griffin, a cupid in gold.

    “It’ll be entirely discounted if I understand you correctly—” my clerk said, “this is all that you want!”
    “I can’t afford it and I’ll have that one!”
    “You’ve broken it! You’ve ruined it!” the clerk said.
    I said, “Don’t look so awful,” but he had already so imprudently advanced into my hell-hole.

THE NEWLY MADE SUPPER
    The guest’s only wish is to see anyone who looks like Betsy, to put his hands around this Betsy’s waist, on her breasts. He’s just lost a Betsy. He followed Betsy.
    In front of Betsy, who supports on her knees her dinner dish, you can see the guest approach.
    “You got your supper?” he says, “Betsy?”
    And Betsy says, “Who’s that in the purple shirt?”
    “That’s not purple. You say purple?” says the guest.
    “What color would you say that is?” says Betsy.
    “That’s magenta.”
    “I have to look that up. Magenta!” says Betsy.
    “That’s magenta,” says the guest.
    “That’s lavender,” says another woman who’s a better Betsy.

PONYTAIL
    The woman secured her hairs together in a string. The child ate a donut. The woman suggested someone throw a ball. The woman fetched the ball, and then the woman fetched the child, and she bunched up a section of the child’s T-shirt, as she bunched up a section of the child’s neck, and she secured the child.

CHICKEN WINCHELL
    The waitress who is badly nourished or just naturally unhealthy has a theory about why the daughter never returned.
    The daughter did return, for only a little stay, to ask which chicken dish her father had ordered for her.
    The mother experiences her losses with positivity. She even frames the notion of her own charm as she heads into her normal amount of it.
    Yes, she confides in the waitress, both her daughter and her husband have disappeared, and yes, her daughter is a darling, but hasn’t she made it clear to her there isn’t a boy her age to admire her within a hundred miles?

    The mother roams home, wearing the fine check jacket and her black calf heels, alone.
    She sees the pair of doors of a little shop where they are selling magic and all kinds of things. Inside, the clerks with elf-locks are dressed for the cold. There is a bakery the mother thinks would be nice and warm. It is okay, and after that, she goes to the gift shop, and gets those sole inserts.
    Normally, the family’s frugal. They eat at home, buy groceries.
    The mother’s legs are trembling, yet she has a good conscience and a long life.
    She used to weigh one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Now she weighs one hundred and fourteen pounds, but it’s been very hectic.
    As she sleeps, the telephone rings, wakes her, and she thirsts for a glass of water. She finds that one thing neatly, reasonably, takes her away from yet another.

THE EMPORIUM
    I had stretched my body into a dart, inhaled deeply, and passed through the aisles at top speed and then a man with a red-nailed woman and a girl came up to me, and the man said, “You don’t remember me! I’m Kevin! I was married to Cynthia. We’re not together any more.”
    They had been the Crossticks!
    What he wanted now,