This is fun. Bad, but fun:
And lurks by the gutter, dabbling his serifs in the white margins of the page. The paper is rough, unmarked. He imagines it besmirched with his grubby thoughts. He rubs the feet of his capital A together and contemplates the object of his desire across that space, across the valley at the center of the text, wondering what it would be like--
Or is there. Oblivious, cuddled up to an adverb that And scarely knows. And contemplates Or's voluptuous form. The firm upright, the dizzying thrust of the branching r.
And peeks at Or across the uncrossable space and wonders--If he got Or alone, what would it be like? Would he be lowercase? Uppercase? Surely, two words that function only to link other words together would make beautiful music together. But Or wants nothing to do with him.
Something happens. The pages shift, drop sickening under And. And clings for dear life as darkness rushes at him, a slick narrow ribbon dropped across the page, the opposing page about to slam him in the face. And is blinded, tangled, bound--
Through the panic, And realizes that he is unharmed. More, something wriggles under the silk--a bookmark, surely it must be a bookmark: And has heard whispers of such things from a bondage manual mis-shelved at the bookstore, under Romance.
Something wriggles under the silk. And recognizes Or's firm roundness, his welcoming spaces. And's ascender stiffens with delight.
"Don't be scared," And whispers, pressing against the bookmark.
Or shivers, too frightened to speak, but his struggles cease.
"I'll take good care of you," And promises. "Why, you're nearly an Oh already."
Wanders off, singing " Would you like to buy an "O"? "