© Sauce*Box, Summer 1996.
All rights revert to author.
My Painted Woman
by Douglas
Wallace
With the menu's unbroken spine lying in front
of me
The waitress and her minor league breasts
Uniformed in a red T-shirt
Ask me what I would like
Sparing her the inadmissable details I opt for
the immediate
"A pitcher and an ashtray, please"
I cast into her shallow eyes
Retrieving a soggy ponytail
I make a show of looking at my watch and staring
at the door
Letting my face evolve from anticipation to concern
Lest the herd mistake my presence
And skittishly flee the pond
The pitcher is half empty and the ashtray is
half full
By the time my love sits down across from me
With the sincerest apologies
From me, for being early
The waitress returns to deal a new hand of menus
Expecting better odds in this game
But we are both staying pat
"Just another mug, please"
It is only when my love lifts the beer to her
lips that I notice
There is something terribly wrong with her hands
"What did you do to your nails?"
"Oh, I got manicure at lunch"
Before I even have a chance to comprehend this
treachery
She nonchalantly reaches across the table
Digs those things into my jugular
And plucks out my Adam's apple
Pulling on her coat after wiping off her dripping
hands
She looks with some pride upon the spots
"I knew that you wouldn't like them"
And leaves the check for my corpse.
* * * * *
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