Slits

Her legs are like silk,

encased in nylons with seams running

to the Holy Land.

They cross and uncross,

they twitch and they rock.

"I need a cigarette."

Please do.



Well manicured,

subtle and lovely.

She takes out her lighter

and (snick)lights. A drag, eyes closed,

she melts a bit and evaporates,

stress steaming off like the smoke she exhales.



"My mother says I'm wasting my life."

Well, what mother doesn't?

Her golden brown eyes glow at me in the sunlight.

A twitch of the lips,

chuckle.

"She says I should just settle down, instead of

running around with all these men. Something about

a cow, and free milk. I don't know. I think

she wants grandchildren."

Ah.



"Yeah, I've got my boyfriends, or

lovers, or whatever makes you giggle.

I like them, I enjoy them, and

I don't want to get married.

You know why?"

Good Lord, no. Do tell.



Rolls the sleeve of her cashmere sweater

up past the wrist.

Pale, raised little slips, like

tiny blades of white grass, and they

cover her forearm, they decorate her skin.

Two large ones,

more like worms, crawl along the main vein.



"See these scars? I've had them

since I was 16. A bad year, oh well,

who cares? But the point is,



I've got three slits.

These two, and the one between my legs.

And every lover I've ever had

has been more interested in the latter

than the former.

It's something to be ignored, circled around.

Even if they ask, it's for courtesy's sake,

or to make sure I'm not some kinda

psych case.



I won't spend my life with someone

who is afraid of the ugly,

the dirty,

the sad,

or the painful.

And so I'm single."



The coffee comes,

the lattes are particularly good today.

I want to touch her legs.

I want to kiss her scars.



We talk about Richard Brautigan instead.