You Write About Leaves

You’ve found the perfect corner, the perfect chair that swallows your curves in its ample crevices. You look down at your notebook. The blank page looks back at you, sticking out its tongue, taunting you. You flick your pencil, rattling the lead inside. You make up a song because you can’t make up a story.

You’d really like a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Coffee that sends balmy kisses down your throat, to the space between your breasts. You’d send the fag’s smoke to lilt in the air, swirling as hearts or circles.

You laugh at yourself. You’re so silly.

He heard you laugh. You feel him staring at you; not like a pork chop, but a chocolate cupcake, with wonder, delight, and distance. You look up in time to miss his glance. He’s back in his book, slim chance of returning.

You decide that you have to get his attention. You will get his attention.

You cough.

You clear your throat.

You sneeze. Loud.

You sigh.

You gaze out the window, hoping to appear unconcerned and hard to get, but you become entranced by the sight of autumn’s leaves skipping across the pavement and encircling one another in a ritual mating dance.

You write about leaves. Leaves, leaving, what’s left.

Your page is almost full. You stick your tongue out at it; revenge, ha ha.

You look up, wondering if he’ll laugh again. But he’s left. Just something else to write about, you think.

Seduction

The scent of coffee dances through the cracked window. She hardly notices it, though, as she sits in front of the television, making messy love to a chocolate bar. The scent finally seduces her, tickling her nostrils until she bows to its commands. Smiling, she lifts herself from the couch that she’d bought herself, and floats into her bedroom.

Like the scent told her, she’d treat herself nice tonight, just her and joe. She flags through her hangers, wondering what he’d fancy to see her in. Her favorite black dress, the silk one with the feminine ruffles along the sleeveless seams, falls from its hanger as if by fate. She catches it before it hits the carpet. She laces it on in a hurry, untucking her raven locks from its leeching grasp. She slips on her shoes, wondering if the outfit is “too much.” Of course it is, just for joe, but who cares?

She turns off the television as she exits her flat. She locks her door behind her. On the street, the scent is stronger, lulling her along on a satin leash. Where would she meet joe tonight? She picks a hotel downtown. She strides in, in love with herself, in love with love. The lift takes her to the roof terrace bar, where a gentleman greets her and offers her a table. She smiles again. At her table, she asks for joe and he comes immediately. As he slides down the twists of her throat, she looks out at the skyline, its size, its people, its dreams.

Tears form in her eyes, licking her lashes and threatening to plummet onto her face. Joe is gone, the scent is gone. She is alone again. She orders a glass of chardonnay and lights a clove, biting her lip as she gawks out at the sky in its shimmering velvet. She can’t fall in love with the wine. It hasn’t seduced her like joe. But even he isn’t real.