The Fatale Kiss
Perched high on her bar stool she sits, exceeding Vargas’s airbrushed imagination,
She nonchalantly carries a look that no mere (jealous) girl can ever hope to attain.
Sultry sexy, collectedly detached,
carved nyloned calf crossed
dangles strapped black pump from her toe,
tapping a Camel blue crush against the center of the hard-pack box.
... Femme Fatale defined...
Bourbon bold he pushes calloused fingers through his touched gray hair,
wishing he was more.
Intentionally violating her personal spaces, leaning in he offers,
“Belvedere martini, dirty, three olives.”
“Of, course.” she smiles through amused pursed lips.
“How did you know?” …
How could he not; Instant stalker from the moment of her scent, he knows all about her.
She is just like him; plush life jailbreak, wanting something more.
Knowing unpassioned everything is well decorated nothing
A lifetime of 'pretty' banal traded for a moment such as this,
the precarious precipice of parlous passion portended
by three empty long stemmed triangles and last call
A light mist envelops as they stand in the middle of four lane route 27,
rush-hourlessly empty except for the
damp black tarmac reflection of red neon lights.
Soft firm breast pressed thick heaving chest,
blood red bow lips engage his, waiting
mentholed smoke she exhales into his mouth succumbed and out his nose
Raining in earnest, her wet white shirt clings, hair dripping, pressed up against her open car door
His caution long killed by her fatale kisses
His hardened heart yields what he said he never would
Baroquenhorse 51-55, M 4 Jan 17, 2013