Symmetry

I look up at your face and can see

that you’re a little worried, too.

I know all about your oh-so-green dietary plan,

but in this bar

there isn’t even a salad.

 

What I really want is buffalo wings.

I swallow hard and do my best to smile.

You frown at the menu and finally gesture

for the waitress to bring a pitcher.

A date doesn’t require food.

Beer is enough,

right?

 

We lace our fingers,

tense around the glasses.

 

We have everything else in common,

everybody is always saying.

 

Our scuffed green Converse touch

as our heads bob like springs on our necks.

I resist the urge to differ on purpose –

“Oh no, I hate watching football.

So violent!”

But, I like football.

And cars and hikes and kissing in the snow.

 

I don’t mention that last one.

Not yet.

You go on about Queen and Zeppelin

and I wonder at how your lips shape words.

And I hope the beer is enough.

 

Heather

She sits next to me in class.

 

I feel her Tiger’s Eyes study

the pink warmth crawling down my nape.

 

She lounges at her desk, legs crossed,

leans toward me

possessively.

Her fingers wrap around my arm

and I imagine the heat

of her skin branding a scar.

 

But it doesn’t.

Not yet.

 

Her smile is eager.  Feral –

a predator’s seductive smirk.

A distinctly feminine scent lingers

in my throat; burns

sweetly.

 

“I like you,” she says.

 

It’s that easy.

 

Gabrielle Tyson

 

 

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