literature

Foxy Lady

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Literature Text

Foxy Lady

You can see he understands her by the way he whispers, “Foxy,”
the way he pretends to bide his time,
slowly circling the bar
to appear beside her.
Her tuft of reddish hair that falls across one eye
does not obscure her vision.
She does not smile as she takes his drink and accepts his offered light
though she has fire of her own.
He smiles and feels his body stiffen, bristling warnings he does not heed.
He thinks he understands.

Fancying himself the hunter he scurries beneath her smoke-filled gaze:
he asks the usual questions,
tells the usual jokes,
buys the usual drinks.
He tells her how he loved the wife who left him,
how he misses the children but never knows what to say to them.
He asks her to come with him to someplace more quiet,
but she's had more than enough of these mousy men
who she sometimes briefly plays with but rarely bothers to eat.

When she finally wanders off, he is too drunk to notice.
Later he looks across the bar and calls to her but she doesn't look back.
She's marked that tree and left it.

She prowls around, slowed by vague sadness.
She dreams of a prey who leaps forth to meet her,
the growls as they circle ever closer,
the glint of moon on clashing teeth,
the blood across her chest,
the eyes that widen at the crack of his neck.
Something I used to read at open mic's. I often like to think about common expressions and muse on what it might mean if they were more literally true.
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