Barb goes to the bar. She sits on the stool, lowers her top, and flips her heavy breasts onto the bar.
“Sauce me,” she says.
The bartender sprinkles salt on one nipple and dumps some tequila on the other.
Mickey scurries over, lowers his head, and laps Barb’s nipples clean, the salty one first. He looks ashamed of himself and refuses to make eye contact with anyone. He puts a soggy wad of money he’s been holding in his sweaty hand on the bar between Barb’s breasts.
We have no idea what Mickey does or did for a living.
He could be thirty or ninety.
We don’t know.
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