Buttermilk and Bisquits
by Bev Haring
“I telled ya it was not a good day ta come ta dis thing” she said as she hitched her bag back over her
shoulder, “now that it quit rainin its just too humid ta breathe.”
Her companion rolled his eyes and sighed to himself, wondering how he got himself involved with these women. Maybe he should stay out of bars, he thought as he followed her down the path.
Walking behind her was like watching two little kids fighting under a blanket as her bulk jiggled and
swayed down the uneven turf in the park between the craft booths.
She looked more dressed than she was, the colorful tattoos on each shoulder gave the impression of much more clothing that the skimpy straps of the tank top she wore.
“Its gettin on dark” she informed him as if he couldn’t see that for himself. She reached up to adjust her glasses on her sweat shiny face, exposing an armpit that had never seen a razor blade.
“Moon’s up” he offered.
She paused to look up through the clouds at the moon.
“Sky’s makin me hungry with that look” she told him.
“Let’s go back ta my place, an I’ll cook us up a batch.”
“A batch of what?”
“Of what?” she snorted, “well, what the sky looks like a course. Bisquits! An I got a fresh bottle a