Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Sarah at a glance.

It’s certainly not a dull face you have, but there are dull components. You’re neither tan, nor pale. Eyes are without sparkle, but also without pain or sorrow or regret. I don’t know how I can tell these things. Your Nose is symmetrical, not sharp or blunt, not big or small. I can’t see your ears, Sarah, push away some hair so I can see your ears.

(My beer arrives)

Your body’s interesting. Though I can’t see your feet, as they are obscured by those leather clogs. I imagine them to be slightly gnarled, rough and bruised from hours on your feet, and the dancing, of course. Jeans are bulging at the calves, the seams straining from the blood throbbing in your muscles. These must be long days for you, Sarah, with all this work and training.

The mouth of your 'crevasse', sorry to call it that, is clearly defined, as you’re slightly bow-legged, but this only serves to make you more attractive. It seems you never turn around, like you’re hiding your ass from me. You walk almost sideways through the doorway as if to avoid it. I guess you’re no stranger to my watching you. I wish, at least once, you’d wear a skirt. I’d love to know if you have knobby knees, or scars from cycling as a child.

There’s something beautiful about the horizontal lines in your neck. They remind me of the creases of fat between an infant’s hand and the end of its forearm. The creases of fat that turn into a human wrist as we grow older, less soft and less cuddly.  

In 30 seconds I’m going to spill my drink. Come over and wipe my table. Don’t forget to brush my hand, Sarah.