I'm sitting at the computer desk, making final additions to the previous post concerning the (Wo)man in the Mirror and the Machinist walks in to give me a glass of water. In his other hand he has the bottle of Volcomin Forte, (which we both take at night) and what seems to be the largest tablespoon he can find in the cutlery drawer. Volcomin Forte is packed with minerals, which are received into the body on a cellular level, but it tasts morally offensive and wretchedly bad. I call it Octopus Ink. Actually .... it tastes like coal tar smells.
The Machinist starts pouring the Octopus Ink*tm into the ladle and holds it near my mouth. He has overfilled the ladle and the ink drip drip drips onto my shoulder. Without making eye contact, and no words uttered we break down in laughter. I swallow the ink, grimace, give the famous Maori open-mouth-tongue-hanging-out movement and shudder.
Ahh... True Romance. He calls me "Baby Girl". He's my Machinist.