Tessa Slipped My Grip
put the paper back into the envelope- Come, girls, bustle about.
- all the feathers were in their correct positions
- “throwing ice cubes at a parade”
- bag of greenish-brown sludge
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Tessa slipped my grip and took hold of my briefs-weasel once more. “You know you want it,” she purred. Her fingers performed an elaborate shimmying dance in there.
“But, um,” I stammered, “that’s just it. I’m not sure, but what I do know is that you can’t, uh, put the paper back into the envelope. Or something. There’s no going back.”
Just then a nearby door burst open. A dozen people trooped into the corridor, last of all a woman in jodhpurs who barked, “Come, girls, bustle about. Boys, keep mincing. Good, good. We don’t need a repeat of the matinee, when not all the feathers were in their correct positions!”
Some of the bustlers and mincers glanced our way, but no one fully acknowledged our presence. The sudden crowd did distract Tessa long enough for me to escape. If I was not mistaken, we were witnessing a rehearsal for the show one Contrarian critic described as how it would look if a troop of wombats began “throwing ice cubes at a parade” and less enjoyable than “drinking an entire bag of greenish-brown sludge.”
bonus points for using them in order