Panther Prattle

The Chandelier Dim's If Certain Words Are Spoken

"The light bulb illuminates," I fairly nudge after finishing a pineapple wedge.

"Wait... are you?" starts Marcia after she nibbles her bottom lip, frantically.

I stuff my face with enough fruit to bloat and float.

I further delay by running my tongue across my bicuspids -seeking out achenes and fibrous pulp which never materialize.

"In the grand scheme of things there isn't a damn thing wrong with being genetically black," I state when her nose begins to twitch.

She allows her glass to hover inches from her lips, releases a chortling titter, then finally drains her initial round.

I watch when she dabs a developing crow's foot and listen to the progressive elevation of tee-hee-hee's clicking out of her mouth.

"You are ruining my makeup," she sniffs when I refill her glass.

I point at the near-to-full tray of nosh, then advise, "There are cucumbers, and there is yogurt in the 'fridge."

Marcia furrows her brows, then tilts her head until her earlobe graces her clavicle.

"Give yourself a quick facial and none would be the wiser," I add before she breaks into another joyous convulsion.

I stand and shake my too-slim hips in time with an Afro-Cuban instrumental spicing the space.

"You should not take everything personally," I advise when I double my steps.

"You have decent dance moves," ignores Marcia with a hint of incredulity.

I snap my fingers and hum along through the musical bridge, then remark, "It is said that the first one hundred days make or break retirement."

"Hmm...," reflects Marcia.

"We should take a vacation," I propose when I stop to obsessively fan what feels like a power surge.

"When?" she remarks with a mild scowl.

"Soon," I respond with a graceful tilt of my head.

Several deflective excuses visibly file out of Marcia's mental Rolodex, ready to safeguard, but I test Teflon by adding, "Where? Anywhere panthers' roar."