Residue

The salt stained streets were snowless, angles escaping from mouth gaping, too cold to close, and the plastic women in the sex shop window seemed so sad and unsexy in their scant nighties, holding hands with penis shaped candy canes stuck in their mouths, the lonesome residue of Christmas cheer on a January morning.

The girls were thirsty in there, sucking on peppermint dicks all day, blind eyes grasping at the humans passing on the other side of the glass.  Once, they saw an old woman with a small man on her back, and another time there was Santa, staring from across the street with his hands down his pants.  But now it is January, and they are watching commuters stamp off the cold.  They wait patiently for the penises to be pulled from their mouths and their plastic limbs to be repositioned into some now pose of madness.

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