A well-dressed man given to excessive preening – let’s call him Wexley – lumbered across the avenue to meet his leggy, halter-top-wearing girlfriend – let’s call her Schuyler – for brunch, at a café – let’s call it Stoned Sundays.
A speeding, slate grey convertible – let’s call it a Lexus Sport Coupe – driven by a tan, middle-aged, entertainment lawyer – let’s call him Palmer – careened around a corner at precisely the same moment – let’s call it synchronous.
The noise – let’s call it a crunch – of Wexley’s spinal column being snapped – let’s call it splintered – cascaded through the morning air like a church bell. A smattering – let’s call it a shower – of ground intestines drenched the median, creating a shimmering – let’s call it a twinkling – viscous chunk pond.
The rising murmur from the crowd at Stoned Sundays gradually turned into excitable noise – let’s call it riotous laughter.
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