Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com
I’d be crazy not to follow you where you live. Your eyes, your lips—I can taste them when I bite the air. You pass through the aisles of flowers and the light glints off your horn-rimmed glasses. You clear your throat and clutch your handbag closer. I pause on the next row and stoop to catch a glimpse of your fingers caressing satin petals. You raise your eyes to mine, between pert stalks of begonias.
You spin on your heel and proceed the way you came. Tomato plants whisper past your bare legs.
Short skirt.You remind me of someone.
I halt midstep.
You seem genuinely concerned.
Am I not following closely enough?
I’ll apologize into your skin.
I can smell your go-go boots. White leather. Flesh beaten into a semblance of innocence. Plasticine over your calves, leaving the knees bare. A symphony of gold and shimmering pinks with coffee. You disappear around the corner. I give chase.
The sliding doors part to depart you and I stop too late.
The parking lot resounds with screams of agony as the first rays burn my eyes.