Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Femme Fatale

Joel remembered the first time
he saw her face:
artfully tousled, shoulder-length
blonde hair,
golden skin revealing
days spent at the beach
or beside a hotel pool,
eyes hidden behind large sunglasses,
cotton candy pink lips embracing a cigarette,
beauty mark above her upper lip
on the right side.
She was wearing a t-shirt
from a concert she was certainly too young
to have attended.
As for the rest, he could only guess.
She was sitting in her car then,
driver’s side window rolled down,
a Serge Gainsbourg song
floating towards Joel
as he gaped at her.
She turned her head,
noticed him.
Then the light turned green,
and she drove away
with a half smile.
Joel decided to follow her,
something he would never dream
of doing on a normal day,
except he had just been fired
and had a whiskey neat at the bar
three doors down from his office
and then another.
And when she pulled into the parking lot
of the high-end steakhouse,
she asked, when he arrived,
“What took you so long?
If you’re a stalker, you’re pretty damn slow.
I figured you could buy me dinner.
I’m not really dressed for this place,
but they’ll let us sit at the bar.”
Stunned, Joel silently followed.
“I’m not a serial killer,”
he said by way of introduction
after their drinks had been served.
She lowered her sunglasses
and replied,
“That makes one of us.”

No comments:

Post a Comment