Spitting.
Hoby rolled his head past deep auburn hair towards iris’ hazel. Head finished right angling after eyes caught Bernadice’s look first. Finished their roll after, his pupils registered matched mock indignation.
Yes, I said spitting. Not normal spitting either. Not like some Platinum-spoon kid’s butterscotch phlegm ball caught in his throat. When he hocks up, the lung butter half dribbles it out between his lips, most of it landing on his sweater.
Butterscotch?
The color, not flavor. Still not it. Nope. This is high-class professional spitting. Rodeo bull rider spitting. One of those with cheek full of chaw making side money on tobacco spitting distance and accuracy. The best kind of spitting.
Wouldn’t that be brown?
photo by Daniel Agee. all rights reserved.
Hoby, color isn’t the issue here. It’s streak… length of streak and arc. Hell, those are probably straight lines, you know? Only from here the curvature of the earth makes them arc… a long bridge in a fish-eye lens.
Aren’t you just Miss Science.
Miss Sweet Science to you – and all men – mister.
Bernadice thought about it, putting her fists up ready for battle. Once she took out a seemingly nice college boy who turned real aggressive after their Cheesy Bread and Meat Lover’s Special date. Perhaps diced pepperoni had angered him or cold cheese breadsticks. He was demanding, but out of shape. A couple well-placed punches, one to the right side of his nose, the other to the jaw, spread unconsciousness and ripe red arterial blood all over his tan upholstery. Here it wouldn’t be necessary. Not with Hoby.
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