She took the train and saw the blur. She got off the train and the blur followed her home. Little blurr, she said, and pickled it and put it on her shelf, right by the sister she’d saved to pickle another day.
Back on the train, the girl took the train to work. She was a serious telemarketer, so she ignored blurs and got off at her work stop cubicle, the towering big block of ice in the middle of TImes Square.
The first caller: unpickled sister. “Please, just do it already,” she said in a throaty voice, obviously having stuck her head in a jar. Extra prepared to be pickled. The girl said, “You’re almost ready Nicole” because she was trying to be cryptic. Really Nicole wasn’t going to be pickled for at least another several hours plus the train ride back home.
I like the idea of being pickled. Can I be pickled too?
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