Old Fashion Girl
Death is an old-fashion girl. We met as high as the swing would go when we were children and exchanged only a few slight sideways glances when we walked along the same grassy hills at night. Death and I grew up together. Our teenage years were full of fits, secrets and lust and thus our flirting became more explicit and our hands almost grazed a couple times out behind abandoned buildings where the small hairs on our arms puckered and rose in excitement and fear.
Death’s got her morals. She’s got her chastity and reputation to think of so she never let our distant love affair become public business and we made it past those wonderful dangerous years still unconsummated and alive-although barely. At an airport a day after my 20th year out of desperation or love that shy old fashioned girl laid a stolen unexpected kiss on my cheek and I fell to my knees. That sweet girl tried to kiss me goodbye. The doctors and paramedics asked about our affair after she left and I bragged and rambled with indiscretion as they put needles in my arms.
And we get along great. She knows her military history and religion fascinates her but she wouldn’t be caught dead in a helmet because she loves to have her hair blow in the wind as she stretches out her hands like wings on my motorcycle. Future rendezvous with her in the Basque country or in the sky are the only things we look forward to because our relationship is casual yet committed. I think of her on gray winter days and quiet nights and I know she thinks of me too when she crosses the street or hands me a drink. She’s the greatest polygamist but the most faithful of lovers.
She’s an old fashion girl. Death wants to make sure I’m the right one before she commits and we say our vows so our courtship will probably last forty years or so but love is tricky business and perhaps in a moment of weakness her lust will become too great and she’ll push me to some dark place to carry out our tortuously awaited consummation. And I could never resist her. Perhaps the yearning and aching will be too great for me in my old age and I’ll take her by the hand and elope because I’m an old fashion boy too and wouldn’t let sickness and shame get between me and the girl I met on the swings.
Death’s got her morals. She’s got her chastity and reputation to think of so she never let our distant love affair become public business and we made it past those wonderful dangerous years still unconsummated and alive-although barely. At an airport a day after my 20th year out of desperation or love that shy old fashioned girl laid a stolen unexpected kiss on my cheek and I fell to my knees. That sweet girl tried to kiss me goodbye. The doctors and paramedics asked about our affair after she left and I bragged and rambled with indiscretion as they put needles in my arms.
And we get along great. She knows her military history and religion fascinates her but she wouldn’t be caught dead in a helmet because she loves to have her hair blow in the wind as she stretches out her hands like wings on my motorcycle. Future rendezvous with her in the Basque country or in the sky are the only things we look forward to because our relationship is casual yet committed. I think of her on gray winter days and quiet nights and I know she thinks of me too when she crosses the street or hands me a drink. She’s the greatest polygamist but the most faithful of lovers.
She’s an old fashion girl. Death wants to make sure I’m the right one before she commits and we say our vows so our courtship will probably last forty years or so but love is tricky business and perhaps in a moment of weakness her lust will become too great and she’ll push me to some dark place to carry out our tortuously awaited consummation. And I could never resist her. Perhaps the yearning and aching will be too great for me in my old age and I’ll take her by the hand and elope because I’m an old fashion boy too and wouldn’t let sickness and shame get between me and the girl I met on the swings.