Call Me

Call me, she urged, then felt her skin flush red. Had she really batted her eyelashes coquettishly?

Out of character, out of her league, but her outrageously raging hormones won the day. Even now, 

Decades later, she cringes at the memory. Hoping at least that he’s forgotten her flirtatious 

Demeanor. Maybe someday she can laugh at her fumbling, mumbling attempt at seduction. 

Oh girl, she laments, Whatever possessed you? Age brings wisdom, but ponders regrets.

Ludwig Stutz, “Flirtation in the Garden.”

A New, Old Language

We shared smiles and stilted conversation in a darkened smoke-filled room. Blues 

licks melted around a makeshift stage like butter on hotcakes. The smell of burgers 

cooking on an old Coleman grill raised a growl from my stomach while my mind 

wandered in rhythm to the music. When my friend spoke again I strained to listen 

over a low down lyric, “somebody done his woman wrong and someone made him pay.”

I asked my companion to repeat himself; as he talked I noted something new:

He spoke without contractions. Instead of “I’m glad you’re here,” it was “I am” and

 
“you are.” There was no “we’ve,” but “we have.” And I thought, who is this man? 

What has shaped him to speak in this oddly stilted, yet unaffected way? Without 

intending to, I found myself adopting his speech pattern. Would he notice and be 

offended? Oh hell, would he think I was flirting? Adroitly I threw “isn’t” and

“aren’t,” “didn’t,” and “won’t” into the mix narrowly avoiding an awkward 

situation. I can’t make this stuff up, y’all.

  

Courting Studly

The title is deceptive. I have no intention of detailing my dating years with Studly Doright. Suffice it to say we made out a lot in parked cars, and at one point he asked, “So, you want to get married or what?”

To which I answered affirmatively, and the rest is history. Ancient and yet present history. No, this post is about Studly answering a summons to report for jury duty here in Gadsden County, Florida.  

I get all excited when I’m selected for jury duty. I’ve gotten the summons many times, but was chosen to serve just once. I think maybe my bright pink Pick Me! Pick Me! banner is a bit off-putting to attorneys. I can’t imagine why.

Studly does not share my enthusiasm for performing his civic duty. In fact, his response to the summons included a string of colorful curse words, and he seldom swears. 

After he calmed down I assured him it was unlikely he’d have to serve. “They call up tons of folks! What are the odds?” I offered to let him take my lucky pink sign. 

Apparently he should’ve taken my sign or purchased lottery tickets this week because he came home from the jury selection on Monday with the grimmest expression I’ve seen outside of a Criminal Minds episode. Another string of imaginative swear words accompanied his telling of the story. I fed him dinner and patted his hand. 

Curious, I asked him if they’d been given any idea as to what crime had been committed. He nodded, thoughtfully chewing an extra savory bite of roast that I’d lovingly prepared, but said he wasn’t able to tell me. 

Now it was my turn to say something colorful. “Son of a biscuit eater!”

So I changed my tack. I cajoled and flirted. Flashed a sexy thigh. Seductively bent over the laundry basket and wiggled my backside. But he wouldn’t spill the beans. 

This morning I sent him on his way with an admonition to be a good little juror, and a husky whisper promising all sorts of naughtiness if he’d just give me the scoop. But, still he refused. 

There’s a reason I call him Studly Doright. Dammit!

Peace, people!

  

We Know Them, Right?

the aging blonde hovering
beside a man half her age.
touching, always touching,
insinuating her presence.

her friend, a buxom brunette
hovers nearby, laughing,
competing, vying for the
attention of the alpha male.

the drama is intense; the
laughter raucous. thank
goodness I am the observer
and not the observed.