Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash
Dear Lips,
Why did you do it again? I watch you with my eyes closed, as you pretzel in the mouth of a stranger, fumbling in an alleyway, where he has walked you after dark. I blame you, though you had held out for a long time, and there’s only so long that chocolate can be a substitute for affection. We know better than to be here, of course, lying on cold cement in a short dress, exposed to the neighbors, and it does seem like an awful sort of prequel to an episode of SVU. But there you are, coiled around his tongue, twisting into infinity, brain sparkling wine from earlier in the evening, light and shadow, lit up with this corkscrew spinning round our psyches, taste buds gripping like slippery saliva, an elevated, vaccinated, elegy for the resurrected, and even thought we all know he will never call again, you recite my phone number in giggling bursts, pecking his eyebrows with teasing little kisses, wondering if perhaps he will follow through with his stated objective of a serious relationship, despite the clear intoxication clouding his vision.
As usual, opposites had attracted, and a sweet gesture of kindness, “I’ll bring you a chair,” opened a doorway that couldn’t shut. A solid hour of close talking, an intimate interchange at a dreary dinner party. Swayed by olive eyes, you couldn’t resist honing in, playing along, quick quips, clever swipes. You set the stage, you wrote the rising action, and there was no real way to decelerate.
You did try to dissuade him; you told him our real age, you frowned at his cigarette, you spoke our truth. You objected to his unsubtle machismo, his choice of news channel, and his general ignorance of the giant sequoia tree. Still, this was a pitifully weak defense against the forces already at play, and somehow, despite your self-affirming declarations of independence, he leaned in closer. You tried, dear lips, but I blame our brazen shoulders for their impudence, because with each of your frowns, they tilted towards him anyway.
And, even though he is a tattooed college drop out, a self-proclaimed serial entrepreneur, breaker of rules, and an admirer of Vladimir Putin, there was something in the square set of his jaw that kept me transfixed. “Whatever I need to learn in this world I learn,” he said, “Whatever I need to do to succeed, I get done,” and his massive silver watch, though possibly a dollar-store knock off, bespoke a shiny authenticity that blended seamlessly with his sinewy forearms. Yes, this man could be a good match, and at the very least, a tasty one-time substitute for dessert.
So, my dear lips, when he asked to walk us home, you said “Okay,” and when he wound his arm around our shoulder, you smiled like a cat, and when he finally kissed us, we surrendered to the cogs of the universe clicking into place. It’s all much better than a Hershey Bar, certainly better than a Three Musketeers, and I wonder if I’ll be able to say no long enough for him to ask me on a real date.
Beth S. Pollak is an emerging writer and teacher based in California. Her work has appeared in Tablet Magazine and California Quarterly. She likes card games, cookies and public transportation.