W

     Wendy                 

Sticky

The crystal thimble skidded in her meaty palms. The warm syrup thudded painfully in her temples, breast, loins.

She left them to sit in the living room — ‘parlor’ maybe — as she wandered to find him. Another sip and the thimble falls, like rock skipping the still lake of her body, leaving wine wounds at each prominence.