Love at First (Loss of) Sight.
He walked into the train station with a look upon his face that was part satisfaction, part disgust, not unlike someone who has just pulled a large ball of wax out of one’s ear. “One ticket to the lake,” he requested as the voices in his head waxed eloquent about wax-free ears. His thoughts were however, rudely interrupted by a shoe.
And the long slender leg, which was forcefully propelling said shoe towards his head.
“Die, you bald, Polish pig!” he heard her scream as her patent leather stilettos repeatedly made fresh acquaintance with his face. “Stop!” he cried, “I am not a bald, Polish pig.” His voice was shrill with the surprise; one would have after all, never expected to raise that exact protest when consuming that morning’s cuppa; but it was also unwavering and vehement; rooted in the confidence that can only come from knowing that that one is not bald, not Polish and most definitely not a pig.
She stopped.
“Um, sorry, thought you were someone else, actually,” she said, extracting her left heel out of his bloodied eye-socket, and gingerly reached out to wipe away some bone marrow that was attempting to make a dash for freedom.
The second her hand-made hand made contact with his face, he felt something electric and ephemeral. The spark of true love? The jolt from one of those handshake-buzzer thingamajigs that was strapped to her palm? We will never know. But whatever it was, it did nothing to stop him from bursting into verse, compensating for a non-existent rhyme scheme with one twinkling eye and unbridled enthusiasm.
They told me all roads lead to Rome.
Um, your shoes made my eye sockets foam?
But you won my heart with kung fu thunder,
And your, erm, quirky mannerisms.
Yet my sightless eye can’t help but wonder,
Do all loads read to spoonerisms?
She giggled. She had always been fond of doggerel. They went out for lunch.
