his cufflinks were blue, but worn.
the paint chipped at the corners.
i noticed he had a watch suntan,
that annoying band of lighter skin
that glares up for all the world to look at.
he fumbled noisily.
i wondered what he could be thinking.

my legs were bare, and at the time,
i had a prayer of someone noticing me for
more than a killer smile or ample breasts.
i hadn't worn a dress in all these foul years,
and the rot of it was deafening.
he bowed and outstretched his hand.
rising, i
accepted his advances,
those stingers that clung like bees.
we waltzed, and i eventually retreated
a frightened freak experiment.

i did not like his eyes,
(some bare wire exposé.)
his eyes, those icicles, bore into me.
and when they melted, they'd become
puddles at my feet, in my womb. exposed.

still, they were unsettling.
they told me of dark places and brooding thoughts.
they told me too much, too much
of little girls and what he liked to do to them.

09/17/2003

Author's Note: this started as a topic challenge piece that Wiley Otis gave me, and wound up being the topic given to me by Krista Brock. :) funny how that happens. the whole thing is rather odd, but what do you expect at six AM!?

Posted on 09/17/2003
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