Kenneth
Gurney
Caught
in the Act
I’m
sitting across from a girl who wears a dog collar,
many
piercings and mostly black.
She stares at some young,
construction worker with a tight ass.
I doubt this is a
Cinderella fantasy.
She is not aware that I’ve
noticed her watching.
She is not aware that drool leaks
out
of the corner of her mouth.
Unconsciously, she drinks more rum
and coke.
Her face flushes as if with fever.
She is
aware that her eyes never rise above his belt
and that her
palms itch and sweat
and her heart pumps very fast.
She
prevents herself from blinking.
Now she talks to herself,
rehearses
a line she can use to break the ice
as if
the heat radiating from her body wouldn’t melt it.
She
fingers a dog leash in her pocket,
thumbs the clasp, lets it
go click, click, click.
She lifts her butt out of her chair
and shifts gravity to her feet.
Her breath freezes in her
throat
as a dye-job blond walks up to the guy
and
they embrace, kiss. The blond hangs on him,
gives
his tight ass a long, hard squeeze.
The dog collar girl spits
on the raw floor and mutters a curse
about dark roots and
breast enhancement ruptures.
She pounds down the rest of her
rum and coke,
orders another,
grasps the
leash’s length of chain
and runs her left hand up
and down its links.
She unsettles back into her seat.
Her
fingers tap chords on the table.
Her eyes find the top of my
head
as I scribble this down on a napkin.
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