Her shirt is off the shoulder, jagged along the edges a consequence of running a rusty blade across its fabrics. Her hair is pulled back from her face, looking sanguine in her sharp make-up for a stage.
You lean back in your chair to meet her eyes, as sporadically as dandelion seeds meet the dry Colorado ground, yet still every spring those yellow flowers pop up in every yard. You wobble back and forth, one of your chair legs is an inch too short.
She takes her hand and dips her finger in the dessert, a finger food amount of sweets. You gently carry your black coffee to your lips, careful as its almost overfilled, it tastes rich, dark and almost bittersweet.
She shows you Jane Russell in her prime and glory days, her hair is like barbed wires, coiled tightly and strongly around her jaw. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, black widows have their own red streaks, dangerous and daunting.
Spinning a web with her fang like teeth, to covet a night when eternity of darkness knocks at the gate seems selfish. You try to bask in you’re sunshine shirt and look away from time to time.
You wait and in that moment of demurring it’s too late, the seasons have already changed and your little demure spider has disappeared. You run your fingers across your lips, sticky and soft, you chap them together then keep them shut.
You’re afraid, because you don’t know exactly what would fall off your tongue while tears roll down your cheeks. You sigh and dream of another day, waiting for the waves to hit shore will only leave your boat at the dock.