Happiness girls are standing on the tarmac of a red plane- bare teeth, pulsing; their breasts are proud like upper class- their leggings plump boast like hope.
In the dream of a dream of the edgy runway lights. The turn from here is a stroll. A norm-bound, debt-bound a port that devours and despises a man who’s drunk one too many on the flight, cheap and on the red eye. Now leering.
From the nose to the tail of the plane- fluttering and fleet like flames- ebullient nymphs, women who know no bitterness. A sea of plain and contrite men who have lusted but not made a claim- burlesque!- the girls are giggling and raising my hope.
Not to stop now, not to stray from the path, and not to forget the rules of a monogamous love; and to go on without the hope of a lay with the happiness girls is for the best, I know.
But, heavens, I am so sad.