Flash Friday; We don't need no stinking plot in Flash Friday

She wore a large iron key around her neck; an ornate bow, a long skinny shoulder, and the cuts were deep and wide where they hung in her cleavage. People asked about it often. Men. Men caught staring at her cleavage. She had a short list of answers depending on how they asked.

It was 1984, I was laying on the pavement. Orwell would have appreciated how mundane things were. The key bit into my forehead, her tit cushioned my cheek.

“Hey, mister, you ok?”

“Yeah, fine thanks.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Oh? Oh. Shit.”

“Can’t you feel that?”

Yes, I thought, the iron is cold and the tit is hot.

“I didn’t, but now that I see it … no.”

“What happened?”

I’m sure that was complicated question and even now with a thousand miles of hindsight I’m not sure I know how to answer that. But I sure do remember her talking to me, inane and obvious conversation, iron key and that tit, a tit that turned heads, even in stoic Omaha in the apathetic Orwellian summer of 84.

By autumn I was stuffing my rags in a suitcase covered in and held together by grateful dead bumper stickers, faded dancing bears bleached by age, and I would board a train to the coast where I lost a year, another year, before my life picked back up.
All summer, though, we had us a time, like characters out of an unpublished Carson McCullers novel; The Bad Seed and the Tit or The Smell of Wet Concrete or … I don’t know, if I were Carson McCullers I’d be dead. We sure did give Omaha something to talk about.