|Photo by Heather Sorenson|
He confiscated her leathery glove,
kissed her hand with Czechoslovakian
lips, then passed over a Danish with amorous
eyes and said, “Láska.” She took a nibble, giving
a nod in agreement. It was tasty.
But she was not there
to eat. Waiting to “carfuffle” as she
had suggested, baseball bats, protective
gear stashed in hiding
inside her car, jazzed to take on
rebels in style.
He knew that word, “carfuffle,” his wife
had whispered it into his ear at night. Now,
inside his car were champagne, caviar,
ready to take her, the tasty one, on
without the bother of language
getting in the way.