Lunch outdoors. You said it felt more
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like a break. Every Wednesday, we would eat
somewhere beneath a canopy or golf umbrella.
Or under nothing. Just bare blue of spreading noon,
white of sheepish clouds. You nod, faintly,
to the waiter, ignore the crowd of words
and soon there is nothing
but the bright clear sky above
and you and...
at the corner of your lip.
You smile, take a sip of coffee. Still
it's there. I watch, enchanted, by the yellow
spot. Your tongue darts out. I stare.
(I'd been staring all lunch long, but at your
eyes, the way your
breasts stretch out and tent the blouse a bit beside each rise, your
perfect neck, the shadow of your
collarbone, the taper of your
fingers, bridge of knuckles, sun lines in your
wrist across the napkin, your
Now a little drop of mustard draws me
in. Breaks the fantasy, the dream of
Work may stop. Reality
is yellow, though.
Blue brush above. Two checks below.
I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.