November 25, 2009

I’m playing down to you. Yes. That is exactly how to put it. There is no balcony for you to lean, bespectacled and gloved out of.

You don’t get to be court-side or curtsied at. I’ve put heels on. I’ve taken off my apron. My finger is wagging.

Better still, I’m dangling a nice piece of salami inches from your nose. I’m ten feet high at the drive-in making Bette Davis eyes and streaming silver light down through your windshield. Right into your boyfriend’s lap. Oh sure, I’ll flash a glance at you. Throw you a bone, a sparkle of enamel. Snarling snaggletooth. Cakes of make-up. It all looks so smooth under the booming lights, sounds like honey slipping down your throat.

I’ll let you get close enough to smell the lipstick. And you’ll want me even more. Once you feel I’ve shared my secrets with you. But honey, the only thing you and I share is a distant relative in Sarnia. And neither of us are going back anytime soon.