The bandage tangled and managed the wound with fuss. Euclid Rush regarded the gash in his arm. The disguise measured the length of his face. He had found the fact of the situation gave rise to a speculative concern in regard to the series of events. A wager, a gambol in depths of strange argument. Could He? He thought. The mask was a smooth and shiny white beneath, a plastic expression of stallion breed, the mask was an exclusive stud, a horse in flaring gallop, eyes in hue with his. The jaws were clenched
In full run. He touched the nose of the black plastic horse and the braid of horsehair tickled the back of his neck. He thought, the assumption, the bet, the unbidden gambol, should he, could he? Euclid honored the bet as he prayed for guidance.
The mask remained frozen in expression and Euclid remembered, the flower peddler, the rose blush and Daisy arrangements in neat rows, a Rose for two dollars. Euclid had grabbed a rose and the man behind the counter had slashed his arm with a pair of trimming shears. He had ran, on a gambol, on a bet. The fresh wound had dripped scarlet like the rose, on the barter of an impulse and an undeniable obsession. He hummed and events unfolded in layers of what? He asked himself, the bet, the gambol? He whispered, "wine and roses for my exile."
Soon after, he removed his mask and repented the whim. A gambol taken in triumph of boredom.
submitted at 11:13am
23 May 2010