It's wicked to mock the afflicted

She sat at the bar like a dollop of human shit. The brown blouse was not a wise choice. The rolls of fat filled the synthetic fabric like sausage in a casing and looked like a series of extruded coils. A big rosé drinking turd. Instead of steam she emanated cigarette smoke. She croaked orders for more wine and matches in a voice thickly covered in tar and nicotine grease. Most people have distinct facial features. Noses. Lips. Cheeks. But hers seemed sculpted lazily from the soft waddle of flesh pushed up from her neck by some hateful god.
Did someone love her or merely tolerate her? Was she really lovely once you got to know her or was she truly repulsive in spirit as she was in appearance? The arguments began to favour the latter as I sat alone getting drunk at the table behind her listening to the horrible voice that flatuated from her lips. Most declarations were on the inadequacies and stupidities of the people she has had to endure. Lazy immigrants. Bad holidays with unsympathetic guides. And useless men. She continued to foul the air of pub with an unending enumeration of the inconveniences and affronts that had accosted her person.
Suddenly I have the urge to hug and kiss her without her consent. This compulsion is not out of affection, but from that same need that pushes men to wrestle alligators or eat fugu. That attraction to the thrill of danger and the knowledge that reasonable men would not dare follow your self destructive path.
My imagination shoots off with vivid hyperactivity. I see myself nuzzling up to her sweaty neck, choking on the smell of stale cigarettes, body odour, and a sickly sweet perfume bought at a boot sale. Her corpulent flesh yields like bread dough and then I cannot imagine anymore. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I open them to see the bouncer throwing out a drunk who pissed himself at the bar. I wish I thought of that.