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“Check out the third definition of trail (below), and respond, using the word exactly as it appears, in no less than 33 and no more than 333 words.”
Trail: to move, flow, or extend slowly in thin streams <smoke trailing from chimneys>
It was August in New Orleans, and the night was opaque with a steamy-stench that lingered in the nostrils. They were two strangers waiting for the Carrollton Avenue streetcar; grey beads of sweat crawling like ants over their scalps, a trickling trail down their backs.
The woman put a Tareyton between her lips and the man unexpectedly half-lunged to light her cigarette. The flame singed the tips of her tarantula-eyelashes.
“What the …!” She jerked back, a little scared, and looked him dead in the eyes.
All three of them.
There was a blue eye on the left, brown on the right, and then the erroneous white eye―minus its iris and pupil― haphazardly developed smack between his manicured eyebrows.
It resembled a runny poached egg white.
“Ooops!” He blushed. “Clumsy of me…” He shoved the lighter in his jeans pocket and offered his hand. “Name’s Ignatius. And you are?”
“Uh, Twyla.” She touched her fingertips to his.
“Lovely name, Twyla.” He smiled. “Reminds me of… the twilight…”
“No shit?” She flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder, Cher Bono style. “You, umm, have three eyes…” Twyla took a long drag from her cigarette, leaned her head back and blew a smoke ring. Its trail hovered in the soggy air like a lost angel’s halo.
“Indeed.” Ignatius grinned, winking his middle eye. “So I’m told.”
Their streetcar clamored up and screeched to an eventual stop.
Neither Ignatius nor Twyla made a move, their five eyes glaring at the interruption as if it were a telemarketer on wheels. After several seconds, the driver shrugged and the streetcar lurched away.
Iridescent gnats orbited in the wrinkled glow of the cracked street light. Twyla carefully reached up and peeled Ignatius’ middle eye off of his face like a wet Band-Aid. His errant eyeball felt like phlegm between her fingers. She flicked it in the filthy gutter.
Twyla crossed the street and rounded the corner without a backward glance, while Ignatius—still grinning—stood blindly alone.