|
The Chief, crawling under her (still motionless and equestrian), noticed that Mrs. Protestant pastor’s underpants were pale blue (despite the evening hour) and were well matched with the environment (from the dirty blond hair of her calves to the landslide rocks – ready on an artificial hill, waiting for the fall rains). He noticed also that they weren’t real underpants, at least in the normal meaning of the world, but thongs. Which she must have grown up in, given how worn the seams were, and grown into, given the fat overflowing from her midriff. From which something similar to sweat was dripping (in droplets and driblets) onto the wooden parts of the pylons, emitting a dull but loud sound (a typical oxymoron of a droplet of sweat hitting wooden trellises).
|
Schedule