the thrifty

The Thrifty


Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading each
others bank statement, in her lap a posy of flowers he
had taken from a day fresh grave and as owls in an old
tree hooted, serenading them; inhaling the melancholic
sent of stolen flowers she said:
“We can’t get married yet, my love.” “I know dear, we
have to wait till your parents’ die, since you are looking
after them, as I do mine, we just have to be patient and
wait, what they leave will be ours.”
He fumbled in his pocket and gave her a penny a child
had lost outside a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her,
although she had a handbag, so full of lost coins, that it
needed an extra shoulder strap and a reinforced bottom.
The moon kept on shining for the thrifty pair where they
sat, on a green bench of love, whispering slowly, exciting
numbers to one another: “million five hundred thousand
dollars and much, much more,” as orgasmic lust frugally
swelled in their loins