She struts her stuff on the rim of the margarita glass, high kicking salt up over her beehive.
Her hair glistens like Christmas rock salt.
How can she balance like that in those three-inch cocktail shoes spiked with cherries, explosive in that exaggerated jazz style, all staccato and rum.
There could be a fight.
This is way too much passion and energy for me after a hard day of work.
Could I just have a paper umbrella, please?