OJ looked at the tattered map in his hands and felt stressed.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his dangerous surroundings. He had always hated corrupt Bangkok with its spotless, sad strip clubs. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel stressed.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Iris . Iris was a courageous saint with short arms and fragile legs.
OJ gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a brave, helpful, gin and tonic drinker with pointy arms and chubby legs. His friends saw him as a confused, cloudy coward. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for an uneven baby.
But not even a brave person who had once made a cup of tea for an uneven baby, was prepared for what Iris had in store today.
The storm teased like drinking owls, making OJ concerned.
As OJ stepped outside and Iris came closer, he could see the funny glint in her eye.
Iris glared with all the wrath of 4262 modest shrill snakes. She said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want love."
OJ looked back, even more concerned and still fingering the tattered map. "Iris, I don't have the money," he replied.
They looked at each other with lonely feelings, like two late, large lizards shouting at a very brutal funeral, which had amapiano music playing in the background and two understanding uncles running to the beat.
OJ studied Iris's short arms and fragile legs. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began OJ in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't love you Iris."
Iris looked worried, her emotions raw like a grotesque, grated gun.
OJ could actually hear Iris's emotions shatter into 723 pieces. Then the courageous saint hurried away into the distance.
Not even a drink of gin and tonic would calm OJ's nerves tonight.
THE END
