Jazzmin Flush (46)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (46)"   
   
   "You can't have a torrid Tolstoy story, written in eloquent sequences, before being divinely spawned everlasting and eternal--without a pizza delivery guy as a main character!"  Thomas cried.
   Jazzmin Flush didn't blush, but passionately pushed back:  "The L.A. Derelict published my first obituary on Girthy Gilda, but--I'm not a novelist.  I'll never be a novelist.  I don't wanna be a novelist!"
   Thomas sideways, sideburns growing Wolverineways.  "Just check it out, will ya?  This dynamic dude dubbed Danny--he may be your father.  Why else would he deliciously deliver an anchovy deep dish decorated with baby, multi-colored gummi bears?"
   "He thinks I'm pregnant."  Jazzmin Flush biting her lip at the resonating remembrance of an entire rainy year.
   Thomas continued:  "He's got your goldenish hair, same almond-shaped eyes, and his 1957 Chevy with two, mind you--TWO, four barrels is constantly rumbling, like tough pit bulls, outside of your basement habitat.  And he's too much of a geezer to be stalking you.  I would sniff out that testosterone-laced crap, easily.  I can smell him, and he smells like you--this dude is your Dad."
   "But he's a pizza delivery guy?"  Jazzmin Flush snarled.
   "Now that you are a hot, sexy reporter--you think you're too good for him?"  Thomas imperatively probed poignantly. 
  "Okay--I officially hate myself."  Jazzmin blowing a strand of gold out of her eyes.  "And I do love gummi bears."