Happiness Girls

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.

There.

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.

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