The comadre's underwire infrastructure
disrupted cell phone use throughout the club

By W. Telmé Moore?

You're invited, but your little friend can't come. Tough words from one sister to another, which didn't go over too well at the wedding of the season.
Manita, the underwire infrastructure for the comadre's new bust was so intense that it disrupted cell phone use throughout the club.
She was dressed like laced mutton, much finery lost on a sheep of a girl.
Such unseemly behavior for so pedigreed a girlfriend. She lay the bottle on its side to catch the last few drops of its contents, peering into its neck as though to ask it to confess.
When we caught up with the groom to be, he was speaking cat-Latin, remordimiento over the one he really loved, and much trepidation over the looming nuptials. It took a good hour to get him straight enough to return to the gaiety.
Tomfoolery, teasing, pranks. Call it what you want. Everyone has had quite enough.
I'd rather have heard the maestro on a concertina than that old buzzknack he's recycled into an instrument. Why, yes, it looks like an organ, but what discordant notes it plays, a little like the maestro's love life.
Despite all that happened to separate them, despite all the big issues that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with mangled childhoods, she has a reverie now and again about how it could have worked. It's not likely that opportunity shall ever present itself.
Don't fence me in. Our little cowboy was batterfanged after his Lil'Wildcat finished laying out the new rules of the monte, to wit, he will no longer be needing a remuda of fine ponies.
Holly Golightly, merry-go-sorry. Everyone wanted this to last. The fates had chosen them. They had stars in their eyes. They walked on clouds. Birds chirped. Souls intertwined as one. Had anyone looked heavenward, they would have seen the sopilotes (caracara) circling overhead.
We want the comadre to find a new curandera or spiritual healer. This one has her hunting for verter-water, a charm for warts found in the hollows of tombstones and rocks.
Have you considered therapy? It's always the same for you. One month of absolute bliss finding the love of your life and a year getting over it.
Nothing more and nothing less. He turned out to be exactly what his reputation warned, a pickpocket, a swell-mobsman dressed as nobility.
Oh, the ways the comadre remembers Don Doble Remolque! Trailer hitches and a pyre of tires won't bring back the old visionary of intermodal transportation.
There's nothing like being dumped by the most recent love of your life to make you miss times of yore. Yore house, yore bed, yore smile, even yore cat.