She is softly cloaked in shyness
and secrets he could not extract
by simply touching her thighs
with his sauce-pan hands.
She is speaking in tongues.
Lipstick-smeared honesty, fingers
fluttering to her throat, gasping for air.
He stares at her tiny breasts.
She is leaving him, newsprint future
full of expensive jewelry and taller
buildings. She is scared of heights.
He wonders about the bill.
She is gone in a cloud of Chanel, a
gift that he did not give to her. Now
he sits with the bride of quietness.
No sawtooth grin. He is still hard.
Later on he’ll return home and
have too much beer and jack off to
the scent of Chanel she left on his skin.
Then he'll go to bed and try not to think.
Such are the great moments in mistranslation:
asked for dinner, got dessert.
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