C was watching intently and watched the dancer come over to stage two with her large breasts. “They look nice, she said. You can do that I said, you... dancer won’t be over for a full song. So C took a dollar and went to the stage. The dancer took her head and buried Cs face in her tits. “How was it?” I asked. They were real she replied, nice and soft and not flabby. Very nice. The song was over and very shortly the blond dancer came over to the table and up to C. Ready for the dance? She asked,. Carefully I pressed the petals between two books, I wondered to myself why people insist on doing this, how could a person’s life be remembered by a dead, dried out flower? I poured myself a hit of whiskey and flipped on the TV, not to watch, but to drown out the deafening roar of silence. After a few more shots, I fell into a restless and troubled slumber. I dreamt of her, her hair as white as the snow which covered her grave. Her smile, always warm and welcoming, the look she always had in. More

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