Cherrund Hobbletoff was cleaning his plimsolls when he heard a knock upon the plate glass of his visor. He blinked a slice and uttered a shy grin of mistrust.
Pale blue skin plonked down and made comfortable at the edge of the cradle. Hair dripped and glistened, blood filled the cheeks, her head to the side and its eyes locked with his. Cold feelings made their creep inside. He leaped towards and pinned her, she escaped. The ceilings danced and dated and died and forever the inside of Sheffield City Hall was dripping sheets of clay mush.
He cleaned his eyes and reread:
Hoy hobble, I understand completely. You feel stuck, but I can steam you off the envelope. I can take of your wet clothes and steam you up a bunch of dusty red hooves in a vat of pink chocolate pieces unable to melt unless you taper them with quick-death. June we’ll be horrored like sepia-toned rat queens and will churn out potato jams like nobody’s tomorrow. C u soon xxx
Chobble choked his trousers and grabbed a hat. Outside the kitty frogs were hopping and bopping to the beat of the whale’s tail and all was splendid up in the monkey puzzle trees. He reached the beer garden and followed her inside a packet of crisps reading a book about how to draw curvy lines.
Dehli pockets at the edges of parked trees float toward feather plains inches away. She’s here, she’s here. They’re going to talk about it. Her eyes are triangular, her skin is bumpy and her hair hangs at the sides of her face. Those are the only parts he sees, the rest cased so carefully in decorated tissue. She’s here and they sit down and they talk about it with lemonade.