Writing Prompts-Daily Five

In the back of writing prompt book there is a checklist of quick 5 minute writing prompts. Just single words to get some stuff going. So I picked one word at random by tossing open a page and flicking my finger to...

Flirt

Solid pass. I am horrible at flirting save when any women gives me any sense of acknowledgement I immediately fall in love.
Random woman: "Ok, sir. I have cancelled your cavity filling for Thursday and rebooked it for Friday. Anything else?"
Me: "Marry me!"

Then I go to the next word and it is...

Simper.

This word flummoxes me. What does simper mean?! Did they mean semper like with the Marines and the Coast Guard. Why don't I know this word!? I use verisimilitude in casual conversation and once used cwm in Scrabble.

I go to Dictionary.com* and its a "coy ingratiating smile." Oh, like when someone flirts. That explains why I never knew what simper meant. Is this the thirsty section of the "Morning Fives" section of the writing prompt book. Is turgid next? Voluptuous? Horny on main?

No, the next word is Frost. Big change ,big change. But I have written about weather too often.

The next word is Wine.

Wine reminds me of Mami who is not a fan of frost and did not simper. She beamed  a white Chiclet smile when she was right (Which was always) or alternate to a frown the look of a fallen cat's asshole when crestfallen. Did she flirt? Probably but in a haphazard way "You go into the bakery, mijo. The men there will say horrible things to me"
"What kind of things?" Note I am perpetually six in this memory.
"Never mind, I will go!" And she sashays into the bakery past the mean slapping dominoes on the table and drinking Coors Lights over plates of roasted pernil pork.

Wine reminds me of terroir. A snippet of an article I saw about Brooklyn, NY's last vineyeard. What is the terroir of the alleys by my work? The quivering mud soaked by spring rains that makes the Warhead wrappers poke up from the frowning knotweed plants. The terroir of my gentrified neighborhood must be mineral and pungent from the earth drilled out of ankle biting high sidewalks in front of cleaved homes. Its the high sting of graffiti remover and the nasally latex of condom wrappers. Dew drops dump globing moisture into whatever juice comes out, all body but little flavor. The soil is the flavor of a dozen community gardens risen up and down. The chalkiness of unripe tomatoes and the sweetness of grapes mixed with lead. The juice from here needs to be muddled over wood from broken pallets in a shopping cart burning by the bagel shop. Then the terroir blossoms in the cup telling of things leaving and things rising over bones.




*Like some plebian. Ugh