three girls have spent three evenings in the company of james. especially around the 60s he was portrayed as such an embodiment of male chauvinism, that our girls really did hit the bull's eye when choosing him to serve as an outsourced object of their discontent stemming from real life assholes. just a moment ago, catharsis was finally reached when during the climax of thunderballs james went about his licensed killings while wearing a red rubber body suit thought to have inspired a whole generation of german fags.
“if souls can be conversing in some other sphere then I do hope ours are having the argument of their lives about what the hell these bodies are supposed to be doing,” she said to herself while focusing intensively on trying not to show her distressed state in a variety of compulsive gestures. together with her in the backroom of a private club some people were discussing silver as an investment, among them a man listening intently, a man who had just some days before realized her.
she could not pick any of her usual shields to hide behind, feeling more naked than she had felt when swimming nude in a pool resting within a building representing nordic classism. and all because of that damned man.
on some level she was sure about having slipped into a parallel existence, a place defined by the wills of others and not her own. nothing sinister there, by definition, just an uncomfortable sense of helplessness demanding appropriate attention.
later, when hugging her bag in a tram a man of sixty saw the most vulnerable look in her eyes, and said to himself, “god, if I were younger I'd take the hand of that amenable woman and do whatever would be needed to make her eyes shine valiantly.”
