What she was

Fertile fields she plowed, her talent bore fruit. Cosmetics? No. Production values? No – she meant what she said; she led. I talked her over to my place, for a cup of peppermint tea. I concealed my true intentions, made no mention of her eyes, lips, smile, hips. She was green but full of spring, fascinated with chicken wings. I loaned her my heart, said ‘keep the change’ but then everything changed and I'm splattered, puddled and mixed up like a swizzlestick. I wasn't infatuated, I was bewitched, she was obtuse or innocent, grinned when I hinted about getting hitched. She talked in shy syllables, popped gumballs to Benny Goodman, talked about cannonballs and fat men with cast-iron stomachs; I must have been in a rut cuz this was a pickmeup. She didn't laugh so much as tolerate, something icy, something hesitant; but I have this thing for punctuality and she was never - ever - late.

('absolute rubbish' factor: 7)

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