Gratuity and gratitude in an ungraceful, ungrateful age: quasi-romance.

"She came to me like a friend

she blew it on the southern wind

about a love that was sure to end

now my heart has turned to stone again..."

-Jeff Lynne

She was, my woman, my friend: my confidant, my security blanket, and sometimes even, my chew toy.

There was said a 15% gratuity on service employees; I violate her dubious variagated sensibility with a roll of nickels.

From others: why not use another denomination?  Quarters? Dimes?

Nickels, I says.  It was 3 cents for the service, and $1.97 in donations for the various hangers-on, the buying of fast food or mixed drinks, or whatever it was that kept her mental meter spinning, and me of a certainty, whatever it was she was on about, she would see to it.

I hoped she would buy toiletries with the money; Dollar Tree oven cleaner or something, something in the form of toiletries, feminine care, genuine General Motors parts, not to have Mopar on the General Motors frame, genuine dealership starters and wiper blades, branded stuff, and then me sending her to dollar general to clean her rims and running board tread.  The latter had a milled surface that collected the utmost of filaments of the way, and only a good "spray-on and let-sit" type of industrial cleanser was suitable, the area between the crossmember, the hog head, where brake lines and even the fuel line went in betwixt and between, and the undercoating was only a delusion, at best.

I was told it was a Deutsche in some places, a fresh spritz into an otherwise dismal foray, that for the good of the aryan aristocracy, that for the good of sympatico Osterreich, and I was sure that I always preferred it trimmed nice and Nietzsche.  A hand-painted Von Deutsche bull fighter flogging his red blanket, trying in vain to get anyone's attention; one could paint-up anything to try and make it look like something else.

I watched and she took hold and rubbed it across her lips; when I awakened, she was gone, and my EBT had decided to leave, too, either with her or some other devotee of the dance arts.  But I was, at least for the indeterminate future, sated by being allowed to watch as she rubbed it across her lips, my get for her, dollar-twinky-figh.

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