Do I fear the sun,
or the dawn?
"What is love?" I asked staring through a stream of street lights and concrete sprawl
peppered softly by black and navy, the occasional bursting celestial flicker interrupting the monotony blur.
"Baby don't hurt me?" she responds and starts bumping her head Chris Katan style.
I hate that movie, but I'll let it slide for the moment.
"I'm being serious." I say as faux-melancholy as I can manage.
"Shit, why you asking me?" she pulls us into a parking lot after a few minutes, cranks the steering wheel with a wicked grin- and I'm flung against the cold glass of my own car.
Why the hell did I let this strange woman drive?
Oh right,
the promise of sugary sex,
and sour reality.
I just had to replace a wheel- she's going to throw a rod, and we'll be stranded out here waiting for a god damn tow truck with one wheel perpendicular to the rest.
Which,
I guess
isn't such a bad thing really.
A half hour in the serene early spring night
alone
with
"Well, that was refreshing," she says finishing her donuts and figure eights- just when I felt about ready to pass out from the centrifical force.
I can see my snarl in the rearview mirror, its epically grim and dour.
I wonder if she knows I'm a master of face acting yet.
She places a cigarette gently between her lips, and takes my lighter, a flick, a spark, a minor explosion,
a long draw, and a satisfied puff.
She doesn't remember to put it back.
"Who cares about love anyway," she says looking into the myriad of pinholes in god's canvas.
The smoke curling around her face, tickling her cheeks,
her ruby lips,
expectant,
pregnant with thick gloss and abstract distraction
eyes wandering, searching-
wishing
begging
Why did she take us here?
Did she hear my silent pleas for escape of the urban prison?
Was this her answer?
She has no eyes for me, only the sky of a trillion questions...
I can take that,
for now.
So long as I can see her in this moment.
In this pre-dawn rendevous.
"Hey-" - don't say her name. She might dissapear.
I lean in, over the console, over the clutter, and maneuver one hand deftly behind a curl of hair, over the softness that is her cheekbone against my palm, down her chin, down that long silky road.
Arriving at home at last on her collar, after a long business trip outside the country.
As my lips round hers, gently tracing an outline of my determination to make her mine...
but sometimes
I like to color outside the lines.
Down her perfection, drinking in her majesty, resisting the urge to plunge into that gently throbbing jugular, and making something of a red hedenistic mess.
Just to destroy something beautiful.
I withdraw after my blissful onslaught, silent, and unflustered
having played every card in my hand,
with no regrets.
She sits silent.
Calculating.
Appraising.
Turns
and starts the car again.
