“What is the first rule of never giving up?”
“Hmmmmmmmmm. Never give up?”
“No. Well, wait….”
A moments pause redirected his his thoughts from the tell-all thigh high red and white lattice pattered skirt of the woman walking outside Frankfut’s office window to the lumpy man in front of him. A pin-prick of a thought began at the tender (if given the right moment, sensual) spot between his mastoid and jaw bone and traced it’s cool metal filament up, tickling the surface, stopping at the central sulcus somewhere near the apex of his brain. It lingered, then, because of his incoherent nature and the focus pull back to the bulbous and thumb-twiddling teratoid in front of him it evaporated, aloft, all but forgotten. But thoughts have a habit of orbiting ones mind like a satellite. If his unengaged response systems were any bit as good as his fathers he could have saved time, money, and a bottle of 2010 Gevery Chabertin, a bottle Forbes called “Burgundy’s next generation”. If he had said yes and not no the drunk Irish Setter that controlled his mind would have let thought follow skirt, He would have noticed that hand pressed firmly into that skirt, and therefore, firmly into that ass.
“Right you are.”
Frankfut’s yes slipped down from his patients mesomorphic upper body to the mound of fat juxtaposing his stature to that of a pregnant body builder. Frankfut has a thought along the lines of “Does the unconscious act of thumb-twiddling ever spill over to the realm of sexual intercourse?” or “Has ever a person thumb-twiddled during sex, not as a response to a particularly boring bit of coitus but as an odd and harmless fetish?” Conclusion: Yes, most likely.
The pregnant body builder left to seek out unprescribed solace in the form of a Cornetto and left Frankfut with his thoughts. His mind’s Irish Setter was pulling and prodding, leading him towards his office’s bar. Customary action for Frankfut, girling out with a glass of wine after a days work was the Frankfut version of a Cornetto.
Frankfut’s legs were up on his Vintage Milwaukee Chair Co. oak desk, he sipped and read, read and sipped. On the desk, the bottle of “Burgundy’s next generation” and open in front of him was the daily paper, folded back to the pages least read, the phases of the moon. His eyes slipped for the second time that day and he read section titled: June 5th, This Day In History. A slave market closes in Zanzibar, a very short war began, and the nation of Denmark celebrates it’s Constitution Day. At the bottom of the section is a picture of the Danish Flag. Red and White, a sideways cross. The Irish Setter drags his mind back, back, back, back, to a skirt covered in red and white lattice patterns. To a skirt that was gripped firmly to an ass, To a hand that was gripped firmly on that ass, and therefore, that skirt. His wife’s skirt. The thought, aloft, but now with a gravitational pull, comes streaking back into brains atmosphere and slams like an asteroid directly into the center of his marriage. Frankfut stands up with a start, knocking over his bottle of wine and destroying 750 ml of an entire generation. That skit was a 400$ birthday present for Sheela, and that hand was not his own. It was time to file.