by Mariel Pauline Rosen
Grabbing my wrist - so narrow, your nephew could wrap his hand around (and he did, last night, at the cinema, hesitant to remove his gloves for fear of impropriety and frostbite) - was a classic unnecessary gesture. Calloused and cracked and crying for a covering of lotion, which I have and you could have borrowed, shackles made of snow topped with bloodied cuticles that I did not bloody touch. I fear you do not wash your hands upon exiting the restroom, otherwise my gloved palm would be in yours, despite being quite adept at crossing the street without assistance (I have been for quite some time) from you. But, that is disgusting, and now my wrist - so gently held on evenings past - needs at the very least some Purel, which I have, and you could have borrowed. I would let you, after your hands were cleansed of course. It is winter, germs are everywhere, especially on your man bits - and I just do not know where they have been as of late.
Mariel Pauline Rosen likes Sunglasses and Cigarettes, and occasionally drops by the 6S Social Network.