You were the woman shooting Chartreuse at the Idle Hour last night. Red lipstick, Carhartt jacket, long johns visible above your jeans...being cajoled into "one more" by myself and the sweet bartender, constantly (nervously) playing with your right earring.
I was the man from Maine who dismantled your bike and, in spite of your insistence that you were just fine, drove you home, and waited just long enough at your front door to make you think that I might like to kiss you.
No comments:
Post a Comment