They sat down on the street seats, there were two the hotdog stand had
for it’s customers. There was a sound of sizzle and spitting.
Rosy opted for a burger, whilst Melissa proudly ate her hot dog with
mustard, onions and tomato ketchup. They caught a movie, sitting in
Melissa’s convertible Cadillac. Mellisa was heartily now eating the
popcorn, the butter and sugar option. Sweetened up by the movie and the
popcorn, Rosy said in a whisper I don’t know how you eat hotdogs! To
which Mellisa replied, turning to her slowly, what do you mean? Well
what do you want? I hate cheese and wine. Cheese is cheese, wine is
wine. I dislike both.
Returning her gaze to the screen. Lewis the infamous burgler, when
locked up, confided the unspeakable to Rosy, as she listened with wide
eyes of suprise and interest.
She reflected quietly on what he said. He said in the absence of any
females, he had sex with men. He said it was like overmuch desire, and
that he felt like a dog as he went too far. Rosy felt that hotdogs, were
symbolic of the male phallus, eaten by unsuspecting men, they were given
the idea that it was somehow okay to eat dogs. This was a Freudian
sublimation in Rosy’s eyes.
Rosy felt that the world was overly aggressive at times. A dog eat dog
world, where the frustrated worker, would dig into a big lunch of lamb
chops. To chew out his boss, because he could not speak his mind to his
employer. He smiled politely and dined heavily every lunchtime. As he
pictured his bosses small biceps, he saw them so clear in the chicken
wings he ate. Sometimes when humans fought, barbequed by some bomb,
sizzling and spitting. they would treat each other with a unkindly
disdain, as if dogs. But dogs, whatever their predicament, still have a
measure of emotion. If anything, we were all creatures of some sort. A
duck with swaddling hips, in the meat market discos, covered in spice
would be nice. Meanwhile pacifist Parish priests and monks vegetarian in
their secluded monasteries in China, their fists still like rocks.