His glittering eyes give him the advantage – even over the intellectuals.
His beard is theoretical.
He’s so smart, she says, all dreamy-eyed.
Hypothetically, I tell her.
She ignores me.
I want a man with strong arms who reads Foucault.
I knew him when his arms were stronger and he read Leviticus.
She ignores me.
His hands are everywhere when he speaks – even on the back of my neck.
His fingers are subliminal.
Her smile is drafted with a clever hand; the lead is freshly pressed.
She doesn’t like anyone touching her lips because she has a thing for crisp edges and smudges drive her crazy.
She pouts when nobody is looking.
God, this feels good, she says.
Sometimes her mouth needs a break from all the heavy lifting.
But when they find her again, she picks up the world with her lips and she is their champion.
She has the ultimate smile.
She wanted to be a witch for Halloween, but her mom always dressed her up like a
butter-
fly me to the moon, she said, I don’t want to be just another story for
bed-
time to grow up because nobody likes a
cry-
baby, I love you, he said. I promise I won’t be like them; I promise I’m not a
screw-
up to this point he was sure that she would love him
for-
ever the skeptic, he followed her one day because their conversation wasn’t
straight-
forward thinking wasn’t his forte anymore than
needle-
point me in the right direction, she said, because right now I’m a deer caught in the
head-
lights always made her feel
un-
easy for you to say.
You don’t love him.