The wrought iron chair scrapes patio stone, as I tuck into the table.
A thigh grazes mine, too innocuously.
Pressing its luck against me.
I look over to see averted eyes busily studying the hangnail of a left thumb.
“Rip it off or let it be,” I say.
Those eyes find mine.
I let my hair down. Disinterest feigned.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he asks me.
“No. If you wanted to tell me, you already would have. Besides, I already know.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You are thinking: I want her to ask me what I’m thinking.”
“Wishful and reductionist thinking.”
I seize the arms of my chair and rake my chair closer.
Outer thighs mashing in an intentional collision.
“Put your ear to my mouth. I want to whisper exactly what I am thinking,” I say.
An ear presents itself to my open lips; and hears,
out of my sweet mouth, sailor strings of profanity pouring piously.