Their honeymoon, in Cameroon, Western highlands, she dreamed islands, he smiled and clarified, Sarah sighed, Karl booked passage, packed baggage, enlisted a guide, swelled with pride, visiting Fondoms, he forgot condoms, she stumbled upon some, borrowed, Ugandan, he remained wary, “why marry?” she said, as he read The Speckled Band, she interposed a freckled hand between the chapters, “at the mercy of your captors,” she said, lifting up her shirt, she joked about dessert, he acknowledged his sweet tooth, “I see you speak truth,” her shirt descended, he attended to her pantaloons, that rainy night in Cameroon.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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