We don’t even know each-others names, but we are already lovers.
I tell her I want to show her something special, something secret, and she laughs at my line, but plays along since this game is fun and we both like fun. We sneak down to the park where I steal my first kiss, and hold hands like high-schoolers on their first date.
She loves foot massages, who doesn’t, and I swear she comes when I rub her toes. Her moan turns my blood to caramel, and the hands on the clock slow to a crawl as a bubble forms around us, shutting out the world.
If I listen carefully, I can hear her heart beating from halfway across the country.
She wears those black pencil-legged pants, like a waitress, though I don’t believe she ever waited tables in her life, at least she doesn’t wait on me. She‘s a drifter princess, a lovely vagabond who knows what men are really after, and enjoys the dance as much as the spiked punch.
She can out-drink a confederate soldier, while painting a picture of a Gerber daisy with her orgasm toes. She can turn a hand-cloth into a gown, trim the sails of your boat, and build a house for your dog while baking cookies.
And she can love, oh yes she can love, turning that spigot on like a fire hose, washing you down the street until you find yourself bruised and beaten and totally spent, wanting to take that ride over and over again until you are dead, because what a lovely way to go.
We only live together for a minute, but I keep her name on the mailbox for more than a year, hoping I’ll open it up and she’ll be in there somewhere.
She has other work to attend to, a dying friend in the East, a First mate position in Jamaica complete with uniform, and a rich boyfriend in Portland she strings along like the rest of us, all looking for our moments in her sun.