Oh shit, he had done more harm than good. He was running through a field of ping pong tables cluttered with suburban virginity and noses with little moles on them beckoning cutely at the centers of his eyes. Giggles and tickling haunted him like horrific ghosts of a forgotten genocide saying that he would only need to wear a condom and that would be that. Countless endless minuscule plastic coffee creamer containers opened and poured and poured and still the coffee remained black with only a tiny telltale swirl of dying white fading off into the caffeinated abyss. And he couldn’t remember a single word said, not a moment, not an exchange came clearly to his mind but just image after formless image floating about swimming pools and pot and cans of beer and a little red car and he was always in the passenger seat. He was always in control pulling the tables and the ping-pong balls on top of his self causing the giggles and tickling the haggard ghosts and wearing the condoms. He had created the field and the coffee came from his face and the creamer came from his eyes and she had always been in his pocket until that final moment thousands of miles through he had pulled her out and thrown her into a puddle of tears on the ground. The end.
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