The Sleeping Lion

Tina sat beside the skinny guy with the soul patch and pierced eyebrows. All the other seats were taken.

“How sexy can one woman be? Don’t answer that. Rhetorical question. Hi. I’m Ken,” he said.
“Hi. I’m Tina. I’m not sexy. I’m just here to do my laundry.”
“Right.” Ken chuckled and rolled his eyes.
“You don’t believe I’m here to do laundry?”
“Yeah, whatever. Look. I know your type. You come in here like a bloody sirloin. You know the lion is sleeping. So. The lion won’t smell you. But I sure as fuck will. I never sleep. No. I’m not exaggerating. I haven’t slept since 1982. I’m a scientific miracle. Google me.”
“Okay, Ken. The next time I’m online I’ll do just that.”
“I’m not the popular doll put out by Mattel. Don’t go snooping in inappropriate corners, if you know what I’m saying. Some need cue cards. In your case…a neon sign. Shit.”

Tina sighed. For Christmas she would sit on Santa’s lap and tell him she’d suck his dick for her own washer and dryer.

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