Live your truth. Express your love. Share your enthusiasm. Take action towards your dreams. Walk your talk.
Dance and sing to your music. Embrace your blessings. Make today worth remembering. – Steve Maraboli
Her cry sliced through crisp winter air
like a feathered dart through tavern smoke.
Hello, she called.
He had been watching a flight
of croaking ravens wreak havoc
in a nearby Douglas fir,
flocking noisily;
at first, didn’t recognize the sound
as his own language, but then he turned.
Hell.
Oh.
She was standing up on her porch
wearing nothing
but a pale thin t-shirt,
hung to her knees, and proclaimed
I’M WITH STUPID.
Holding the glass storm-door in one hand
and a long filtered cigarette in the other hand,
a couple of minutes to kill
between Oprah and Donahue.
He imagined he could see her nipples
hardening with the change in temperature
and he wondered what color they were.
He liked pink ones the best,
like berries ripening.
Brown nipples, liked them, too.
‘That’s some big dog you got there,’
she said with a sly smile,
disguising sharp edges in her husky voice,
a barbed hook somehow glinting in noon light.
He noticed she was looking
at the crotch of his jeans,
swelling at the mere sight of her.
Tried to think up some wry reply
but all he could think to say was,
Bet you tell that to all the guys,
and he knew that would sound lame,
so he gave her his quick shy cowboy smile,
like she’d surprised him.
Which she had. She resembled Farah Fawcett
in one of those made-for-television movies
where you don’t know right away
if she is the heroic victim or
the satanic serial killer.
She was slender with big blonde bangs
and pert breasts and a slim waist and narrow hips
with an overbite and high cheekbones.
Pale.
Ball-buster, he thought.
Her nipples were probably pink.
‘Is he friendly,’ she asked.
‘Would you like to pet him?’
Pink.