DO NOT SMOKE IN BED
It's been a long time, but I still have the scar to prove that messages inside matchbooks are genuine and sincere warnings that should be heeded. It all began when I met this beautiful blonde in the lounge. From the moment our eyes met, I sensed we had mutual interests, something to talk about, something to discuss. It turned out that her uncle sold advertising for matchbooks; it was her mention of matchbooks that reminded me of an old matchbook collection I had started when I was ten years old and lost interest in upon reaching adolescense. Her name was Mitzi and she was a brown-eyed blonde in a black velvet cocktail dress that was popular in the 60s. "So what did you do with it ?" she asked. Somewhat puzzled because the question seemed to come out of left field or the deep blue, though the lounge had no such field and was a deep pink like color of Flamingos. "Do with it?" I asked slowly, not wanting to appear I had missed something while I was gazing at the glittering heart on a small serpentine chain that dazzled like two-dozen half-karat diamonds each time she tossed her head of hair around. So appealing, so gorgeous, lovely, was it any wonder that I had lost my place in our conversation. I must have appeared out in left field, unable to answer such a simple question. Nevertheless, I was young, in my mid-twenties and she was probably in her mid thirties. (That would put her in her late 70s today, but I prefer not to go there.)
DO NOT SMOKE IN BED
It's been a long time, but I still have the scar to prove that messages inside matchbooks are genuine and sincere warnings that should be heeded. It all began when I met this beautiful blonde in the lounge. From the moment our eyes met, I sensed we had mutual interests, something to talk about, something to discuss. It turned out that her uncle sold advertising for matchbooks; it was her mention of matchbooks that reminded me of an old matchbook collection I had started when I was ten years old and lost interest in upon reaching adolescense. Her name was Mitzi and she was a brown-eyed blonde in a black velvet cocktail dress that was popular in the 60s. "So what did you do with it ?" she asked. Somewhat puzzled because the question seemed to come out of left field or the deep blue, though the lounge had no such field and was a deep pink like color of Flamingos. "Do with it?" I asked slowly, not wanting to appear I had missed something while I was gazing at the glittering heart on a small serpentine chain that dazzled like two-dozen half-karat diamonds each time she tossed her head of hair around. So appealing, so gorgeous, lovely, was it any wonder that I had lost my place in our conversation. I must have appeared out in left field, unable to answer such a simple question. Nevertheless, I was young, in my mid-twenties and she was probably in her mid thirties. (That would put her in her late 70s today, but I prefer not to go there.)