applespice: it is a sparkly fairy ([sex] red lips)
She is a tall, thin woman with aggressive collar bones, perfectly appointed jewelry, and nary a stray thread or wandering bit of lint marring the flawless column of her cream-colored designer suit. Her tan is the seamless teak that can only be achieved by regular nude sunbathing on private beaches in exotic locales, and monthly injections of Botox keep her skin youthfully taut. Highlights and lowlights in varying golden hues glint in the starbursts of light issuing from cameras below, and her teeth dazzle as the sensuous red mouth moves in unheard conversation with a dark-suited cohort. Caught in a storm of light and sound, she mounts the platform with helpless grace, beautiful even in her distress.

And across the nation we fix our eyes to her pixelized face and think, "Oh no, oh no, oh no," and, "Look how beautiful she is, even in the middle of it all!" And when the tears swim majestically in her thick-lashed eyes, our hearts wrench pitifully for this glorious woman and the injustices wrought upon her. Like marionettes we swing and tap and dance to her tune, our mouths stretched wide with protest. "That bastard!" we cry. "How dare he!" And he is a bastard, this is true. A bastard spawning bastards, if the whispers and websites can be believed. The greasiest sort of politician after all - he had us fooled! And here she is, so lovely, so wronged.

But shh, what will she say? Shut up, shut up, I want to hear! You do not need to open a bag of Doritos rightthisverysecond, just shut up and listen!

Tremulous, she gazes into the crowd; a media martyr, the latest in a long line of gorgeous broken marriages. Her husband didn't seem the sort, but who can ever tell? Pajama bottoms only barely grazing the couch cushions, we hang on the silence, waiting for confirmation. Hoping, secretly, for condemnation. Like carrion crows we feast on the corpse of their romantic fantasy, our eyes gleaming expectantly for more.

But what's this? The usual we-hope-you-will-respect-our-privacy-in-this-trying-time bullshit? What?! Furious, we storm and rage. Amid our fruitless curses she descends the stairs, her jaw strung tight and her back set straight. We barely notice. Drained and disappointed, we open the Doritos and flick the channel. In moments she is forgotten.

And somewhere, beyond the screens and flashes and lookers-on, she slides into a waiting car and smiles at the driver. The dark-suited man climbs in behind her.

"The airport, I think," she purrs, her fingers on the knee of the dark suit. "I haven't been to Greece in so long. But take the long way. There's more than one place I haven't visited in years." And as the car glides away, her fingers glide along an inner thigh and things begin to look up.
applespice: it is a sparkly fairy ([sex] red lips)
She is a tall, thin woman with aggressive collar bones, perfectly appointed jewelry, and nary a stray thread or wandering bit of lint marring the flawless column of her cream-colored designer suit. Her tan is the seamless teak that can only be achieved by regular nude sunbathing on private beaches in exotic locales, and monthly injections of Botox keep her skin youthfully taut. Highlights and lowlights in varying golden hues glint in the starbursts of light issuing from cameras below, and her teeth dazzle as the sensuous red mouth moves in unheard conversation with a dark-suited cohort. Caught in a storm of light and sound, she mounts the platform with helpless grace, beautiful even in her distress.

And across the nation we fix our eyes to her pixelized face and think, "Oh no, oh no, oh no," and, "Look how beautiful she is, even in the middle of it all!" And when the tears swim majestically in her thick-lashed eyes, our hearts wrench pitifully for this glorious woman and the injustices wrought upon her. Like marionettes we swing and tap and dance to her tune, our mouths stretched wide with protest. "That bastard!" we cry. "How dare he!" And he is a bastard, this is true. A bastard spawning bastards, if the whispers and websites can be believed. The greasiest sort of politician after all - he had us fooled! And here she is, so lovely, so wronged.

But shh, what will she say? Shut up, shut up, I want to hear! You do not need to open a bag of Doritos rightthisverysecond, just shut up and listen!

Tremulous, she gazes into the crowd; a media martyr, the latest in a long line of gorgeous broken marriages. Her husband didn't seem the sort, but who can ever tell? Pajama bottoms only barely grazing the couch cushions, we hang on the silence, waiting for confirmation. Hoping, secretly, for condemnation. Like carrion crows we feast on the corpse of their romantic fantasy, our eyes gleaming expectantly for more.

But what's this? The usual we-hope-you-will-respect-our-privacy-in-this-trying-time bullshit? What?! Furious, we storm and rage. Amid our fruitless curses she descends the stairs, her jaw strung tight and her back set straight. We barely notice. Drained and disappointed, we open the Doritos and flick the channel. In moments she is forgotten.

And somewhere, beyond the screens and flashes and lookers-on, she slides into a waiting car and smiles at the driver. The dark-suited man climbs in behind her.

"The airport, I think," she purrs, her fingers on the knee of the dark suit. "I haven't been to Greece in so long. But take the long way. There's more than one place I haven't visited in years." And as the car glides away, her fingers glide along an inner thigh and things begin to look up.

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How About Them Apples?

June 2015

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