You're Not Getting Paid To Love
She doesn’t believe the man in the black robe and top hat when he springs the news. You just don’t find men like that anymore, at least not men brave enough to wear black and grey on a hot spring day. If he had given her the news at midnight, she would have been inclined to sock him, right in the kisser. As it is, it’s broad daylight. The pews are filled with broad-brim hatted women, waving paper fans in front of shiny jowls. That’s an awful lot of hot broads for a May-December wedding. Her lilies of the valley are sweating. Leaving bite-sized beads on her satin pumps. She’ll kiss the other man in black, the man with a tail. Or is it the man in tails? Maybe, maybe he’s the guy with a forked tail her mother warned her about. Either way, she’s not going to bed tonight without a whole lot of cake on her fork. You couldn’t pay her enough to go to bed hungry.