Breakfast

I'll tell you how it made me feel. It was like being tied down to a bed in an old Parisian hotel room with a cracked ceiling and a mouse scurrying to and fro on the dusty wooden floor. It was like lying on that bed, being ridden hard by a gorgeous and absurdly expensive prostitute, one with perfect tear-drop breasts and a tightness that made me feel like I was sure to rip something. It was like looking at the necklace around her neck, flailing about, with what appeared to be — could she stop bucking for just a moment — a pendant of Jesus on the cross. It was feeling her nightstand-quaking climax, so powerful it made her pee just a little bit by accident; but I didn't mind. It was all of that, faded into the background of my awareness, because I was busy searching the picturesque Paris streets through the only window in the place, my view obscured by a pink carnation in a simple glass vase on the ledge. Amidst the murmur of city traffic, the periodic yells of bellhops, the distant cawing of birds, I was searching, searching, searching for the person playing that beautiful clarinet. Yes, it was like that.