I’m not in the habit of picking up cowboys. It puts me in an untenable position, since I know baseball caps and pick-up trucks are not my type and any fool can see I’m not that kinda girl. But there you were, sitting across the table, sipping beer and fiddling, while we bantered in poetic license and empty metaphor.
We showered the conversation in harmless innuendo, each of us clever enough to disguise our dangerous truth in truth. Ignore that ominous Lover card between us. You are not hurting and I am not lost, and things like this don’t just happen.
Not when we know the limits. I didn’t follow you into the night for a cigarette. And you didn’t offer to walk me to my car. But that won’t keep me from feeling your fingers in my hair. Or you from whispering my name into the darkness, just to taste it on your lips.
Rebecca cannot write a piece I don’t like – she’s a wonder and this latest is no exception.
Hmm, that’s a pretty little — revealingly introspective — prose poem.