cigarette smoke
I tantalized at dinner. My shoes were meant for walking. Of course I see the look in his eye; precariously balanced, expectant, seeking. He fancies he sees something in me. I am unexplainable. Mysterious. Alluring. Ambiguous. I am the possibility of defibrilation. We sit across from each other at a small table -- did he just feel my heel tickling his trouserleg? Am I the sort of girl who plays these sorts of games? I smile slightly as if at something else entirely and lower my gaze -- my amusement is private. I am always too close to him. He reacts to my calculated casual brushings and bumpings as if he were a cue ball. I send him bouncing -- here, here, here -- moving him entrenched inches toward -
I know him so well it's infuriating. I usually guess what he'll say next. And yet tonight he surprised me. He spoke of poetry. He spoke of eating peaches, racing the sun, and howling. He spoke of transformation in a way that convinced me that he was intoxicated with metaphor. Oh, I still have him; if anything, now more than ever. But something happened over the winter. Perhaps it is the beginnings of Conscientization. Perhaps he can be enlisted willingly. Our Island is a difficult concept for mainlanders to understand and embrace.
I let him kiss me goodnight. A soft grazing of lips that was not entirely unpleasant. He is as awkward around me as always -- I often catch him with his jaw hanging open staring dumbfoundedly at my crueler displays. But his rich lips were nice tonight to feel. The tip of his tongue reminding me that he always wants More. His hands desperate but his fingers weak. Yes of course he wanted to hold on longer, but his nerve failed when I asked him, with a voice sharp as lace, what his intentions were. He whispered "irrational" and then looked at me as if I should know. And of course I know.
I know him so well it's infuriating. I usually guess what he'll say next. And yet tonight he surprised me. He spoke of poetry. He spoke of eating peaches, racing the sun, and howling. He spoke of transformation in a way that convinced me that he was intoxicated with metaphor. Oh, I still have him; if anything, now more than ever. But something happened over the winter. Perhaps it is the beginnings of Conscientization. Perhaps he can be enlisted willingly. Our Island is a difficult concept for mainlanders to understand and embrace.
I let him kiss me goodnight. A soft grazing of lips that was not entirely unpleasant. He is as awkward around me as always -- I often catch him with his jaw hanging open staring dumbfoundedly at my crueler displays. But his rich lips were nice tonight to feel. The tip of his tongue reminding me that he always wants More. His hands desperate but his fingers weak. Yes of course he wanted to hold on longer, but his nerve failed when I asked him, with a voice sharp as lace, what his intentions were. He whispered "irrational" and then looked at me as if I should know. And of course I know.