Bingo Night by James Claffey
Laundry detergent, bread, cauliflower, nasal spray, deodorant, chili pepper flakes, condoms, half-a-dozen size AAA eggs, crème fraiche, 60-watt light bulbs, People Magazine, a DVD of The Quick and the Dead, and a shower hat. Linda totes her basket on one arm, the mobile phone cradled against her ear, whilst the other hand scratches beneath the underwire of her brassiere. Her skin is broken, veined and blue, and she itches like fucking crazy. Tonight she visits her brother-in-law, while her sister, Mavis, goes to Bingo in the Parish Hall. Linda can't understand why her sister bothers to go to bingo. Mavis once confided, “the thought of shouting ‘BINGO’ in front of everyone makes me sick to my stomach.” Yet for fourteen years she’s played the game every Wednesday night, and for every one of those fourteen years of Wednesday nights, Linda has secretly been fucking her sister’s husband. Eduardo bangs her in the laundry room, Linda's bare ass-cheeks visible in the dust on the dryer lid. He likes to crack the eggs on her ass, and then dip celery, peppers, and cauliflower between her legs. After their lovemaking he makes a frittata whiles Linda removes her toenail polish and repaints her stubby toes with a fresh coat. For fourteen years she’s only used Mavis's varnish. "Two fat ladies, eighty-eight." Linda forks a mouthful of cauliflower and egg into her mouth and smiles at Eduardo. "Bingo, Bingo, Bingo."
A master of French Letters, James Claffey slipped out of Ireland one night when the moon turned a lonely ball shade of blue. His compass points toward the future; flitting for an avocado ranch. James’ letters are renown for their firmness and girth of meaning.
A master of French Letters, James Claffey slipped out of Ireland one night when the moon turned a lonely ball shade of blue. His compass points toward the future; flitting for an avocado ranch. James’ letters are renown for their firmness and girth of meaning.