| |
Boy at bus stop, (17), smiles away at the pretty girl,(16), in silver
retro-refit Go-Go's and flaming red mini, long brown hair matched to big
brown eyes, pituitary gland murmurs PERFECT. But all goes array when
smile is rejected. Surely he brushed his teeth this morning didn't he?
*****
Girl stares and goes defensive, first-love instinct survival mode,
he's cute, cute at least from the spiky blond hair down to the deep set
blue sparklers, but beyond, Oh my, are those a set of teeth or lemon
rinds?
*****
A setback, a quick clamping of the jaw to hide the offending
chompers. What now? A word to recover, or even a phrase, but how? How
to utter the next line of his hormonal poem without opening ones mouth?
Then a flash. IDEA! One quick word with mouth barely open,
"Hi"
*****
Oh dear, Cuteness returns with a vengeance. Calculations,
Considerations, a small connection attempted, Reconsider, Blue Sparklers
Revisited Briefly, Nanoseconds. How to return salutations coyly, but not
too coyly, and a little coldly, BUT NOT TOO COLDLY!!! Time to encourage
cautiously and begin building barriers.
"Hi."
*****
Male triggers and mechanisms tripped, she bit, (Didn't she?) one
word returned and now how to keep the dialog rolling? He, feeling
over-confident, play the cool card, draws Mr. Marlboro and in offer one
word romantic says,
"Smoke?"
*****
And again Oh dear, alarms ringing, this time mother and
father's, warnings of bad girls smoking on street corners wearing retro
fit Go-Go's and flaming minis, Or scratch that, oh well, any way, bad
girls and bad boys at bad bus stops lead to bad things, right? (BUT)
Mommy and Daddy pushed aside, (an opening, new opportunities) A junkie
Prince Charming bearing rusty old Reeboks instead of glass slippers. A
chance to slip the parental noose and spin mommy and daddy's heads out
of the 50's.
"I don't smoke," a rejection. "What's your name?" An invitation.
*****
Cigarette goes away, two words so far, one more to go and he's in,
now only to find the answer,
"Rocky," he says.
*****
And so they launch into a mutual state of Social Darwinist
Dynamics, lean forward lips poised to seal the teenage fever, seconds
click as they move closer, Mommy and Daddy's padded little world so
close to crumbling, but then, Uh Oh, FATE intervenes, long brown hair,
big brown eyes, retro refit Go-Goes, and flaming red mini pull back. A
number comes towards them, 405.
"That's my bus, gotta go, nice to meet you though."
*****
And so, one word romantic struck down gives a defeated wave and an
almost tear, until into the corner of his big blue sparklers a foxy
brunette in Leopard print pants did appear.
|
