Betty Boops

Sonny takes a drag of his cigarette, sighs his eyes shut, attempts a butt cheek shimmy. Right. Left. Knees quiet. Dammit. He wrote that he loves King Charles Spaniels. True. Loves dancing. Half true.

David, responding, assumes Sonny can dance.

And while inside the sanctuary of his study, Sonny does dance. In a feely kind of way. The way he feels when the glow of light through his closed blinds holds him. Understands him. Sees him. He bends, he reaches, he cries, he Betty Boops.

Sonny invites David over at two in the afternoon. He chooses his blackberry velvet slacks.