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Bombazine!



“Elfin,” shouted Dolph.

“Recherché,” countered Starla.

Adjective Slam. Playing on stage for amateur night at Café Primitivo.

“A big hand for newcomers Dolph and Starla!” said Tannis, senior bartender and default ringmaster.

Regulars weren’t sure whether to be suitably impressed or greatly deflated. Was this cutting edge innovative or etiolated nigh to excruciating?

“Inchoate,” said Dolph.

“Calceolate,” said Starla.

Now or never, Tannis saw, time to intervene. “Calceolate?”

“Shaped like a slipper,” said Starla. “As she fled the ball, the clock striking foreboding midnight, Cinderella shed calceolate footwear.”

Tannis, aping smiles delirious, hustled them off.

Next up, a trio of frog washers, followed by juggling nothing revelatory but extremely polished. Café Primitivo filling up, wine flowing, tips improving by the glass.

Back at their miniscule, repurposed oak cask, table, Dolph and Starla.

Starla fretted, drumming her exquisite, multiracial, cinnamon fingers. “How were we?”

“Buttery,” he replied. “Bountiful. Bombazine!”

“Dolph, bombazine? Twilled fabric, noun. What’s got into you?”

“Babe,” he said, “Don’t rest on laurels. Grow. Reach out. Next level, higher ground.”

That did it. Now she knew she hadn’t imagined it. A flick, a tap, as they left the stage, that’s all, but Tannis had touched him and he’d liked it.

“Dodgy, depraved, raving, cretinous!” She lifted their bottle, cracked it over his head.

Il Cantico Salento Primitivo, 2015, the house’s titular red.

“Bold, balanced, floral, fruity, earthy, brambly, jammy, luscious, sexy, romantic,” said Tannis. “Sinful to waste.”

Faithless, feckless, pretty boy Dolph. Tannis the perspicacious. She licked him mighty clean.

This story was written by Richard Baldasty, an amateur night truth teller and adjective flinger. He lives in Spokane, WA, and Twitter tweets @2kurtryder.
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