Sally Jo

A drab forty something, mother of six snotty noses, tie dyed shirt two sizes too small. Nipples poking through the thin cloth. Fuzzy pink slippers and yoga pants, ass like the surface of the moon, with mountains and craters well defined. Dirt blond hair with three-inch black roots. Lights the joint stuck between caked lips, blows smoke into the space, separating her from reality. Out of breath she waddles to the bed. When he tells of the goddess, that took his immaturity, there’s one thing he never mentions. The twenty he left on the table.