OJ Marks was thinking about Iris Jones again. Iris was an intuitive angel with beatiful eyes and curvy waist.
OJ walked over to the window and reflected on his vibrant surroundings. He had always loved urban New York with its lonely, wide-eyed . It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel happy.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an intuitive figure of Iris Jones.
OJ gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a sly, naive, vodka drinker with skinny eyes and handsome waist. His friends saw him as a funny, fat friend. Once, he had even helped a drab old lady cross the road.
But not even a sly person who had once helped a drab old lady cross the road, was prepared for what Iris had in store today.
The clouds danced like singing goldfish, making OJ unstanle. OJ grabbed a peculiar mp3 that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As OJ stepped outside and Iris came closer, he could see the hot glint in her eye.
Iris gazed with the affection of 452 coffident deep doves. She said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want love."
OJ looked back, even more unstanle and still fingering the peculiar mp3. "Iris, I actualy still love you," he replied.
They looked at each other with puzzled feelings, like two handsome, hurt horses drinking at a very selfish wedding, which had house music playing in the background and two wild uncles dancing to the beat.
OJ regarded Iris's beatiful eyes and curvy waist. "I feel the same way!" revealed OJ with a delighted grin.
Iris looked confident, her emotions blushing like a chilly, curved car keys.
Then Iris came inside for a nice shot of vodka.
THE END
