She tries to pretend it's no big deal.
Like her heart isn't racing and her body isn't humming as she walks toward him.
She wishes his back was facing her, then she'd be sure he couldn't see the desire she tries to hide.
He'd feel it though, he alwa(more)ys did when it came to her. And so did she.
It's not a secret, all their cards are on the table. Always have been.
There was just something about him sitting alone waiting for her that seemed surreal, made her feel like she was walking toward the cool kids table in high school unsure if she'd be invited to sit down or if somebody would stick their foot out and she'd go tumbling.
But he was facing her.
She both wanted to sink through the floor and sink onto him.
He brought that out in her.
Instead of sinking through the floor or sinking onto him, she slid onto the chair facing him,just a table between them.
It was the closest she'd been to him physically in longer than she could remember and still it felt like he was miles away. She couldn't be close enough to him unless they were skin to skin.
If you held a gun to her head and asked her what they talked about she couldn't tell you.
She could tell you what his eyes were saying. She could tell you the exact shade of blue his shirt was and how his denim jeans felt when they brushed against her bare legs underneath the table.
Like Pavlov's Dog,she dashed out the door when he called, not enough time to do much more than throw on some lipstick and be grateful she was at least wearing her favorite pair of really-short shorts.
She has really long legs.
Still there for now, but I already miss those red diamond brick patterns, like snakeskin, graffitied with dripping purple hearts. It's now the only wall left to the cafe.
I remember drinking mint tea there just last week. Next door to it, the duplex, thats where we live(more). Unfortunately, we’re next to go at the end of the month. The eviction notice gave us 18 days to find a new home. Moving costs too much. I don’t want to move.
This house never felt like my home, but then again my father was never a father to me. I find myself dreaming and obsessing over all the houses I have ever lived in. I am surprised at how may I have lived in so far. I'll boast the number like some boast the number of lovers they've had. 26.
This house is damp and cool, but our little garden around the side makes for a nice sunny reading spot. I guess I don't have to worry about painting over those crayon scribbles on the living room wall.
Rain is coming down through the sunbeams. The humidity is so thick, it makes the concrete foggy and my hair frizz. I have a hard time removing myself from this spot near the last wall of the cafe. I can't close my mouth completely. I know I look stoned, but now at least you know some details. I am a wet walrus with a perm, thirsty and pissed, obsessing over the loss of my 26th house.
my yellow legal note pads
get stained by so much tea
their pale teal ink lines
begin to bleed
the cups start to smell like my breath
like goo from inside my body
(more) i wish it could be colorful in there
inside this body this body of mine
and the tentacles
they lay dread and heavy
on my crown
and their sweet little suckers
nip my irises
straight from my eye so the whole thing is one
one whole, two wholes
in my face
i can smell the breath
from the cup from my mouth
i can smell it through my face(less)