perfect teeth

She waited for him. She always waited for him. 
Quarter past eight. Tap tap tap. 
Her gold embellished sneakers repeatedly hit the floor. 
Sucking down her iced coffee, pretending to read the paper, 
her anticipation palpable.
Tick tock tock tock. 
The clock seemed vulgarly obtrusive. Where was he?
Tap tap tap. Tock tock tock. 
Sliding her paint-stained fingers over the paper. 
urgent      socialite.
rescued     earnest
words jumped off the page incoherently floating across her gaze.


The door opened and there he was. Pinstripes. 
Perfect teeth. Too perfect. 
Triple Americano to go. Fifty cent tip. Smile. 
Today had to be different. She decided in that moment. 
She would follow him this time. She had to know. 
Her eyes traveled with him through the glass for a moment
and then she was out the door. 
Around the corner she could see his trail of dense smoke--and
then she walked through it--inhaling it
as if it was his gift to her. 


On tenth street he stopped for gum. On Robertson Ave he picked a single flower. 
He rubbed his left shoulder as if he was in a great deal of pain. 
She would have taken it all from him. 

He had finished the coffee by now, setting it atop
the concrete ashtray, shifting it back and forth
in the sand. 
The sun was setting. Purple grey pierced
by yellows and orange. She wanted to know more. 
But she also knew she couldn't. It was too perfect--
his silhouette. The smell in the air, city smell. 
The kind of smell that tells a putrid truth. 
The biting contrast was--
art, she thought. And just like that she stopped
and watched. Watched him fade
further and further into the blackness. 


Each step he took away
from her, she cringed. 
She wondered if she would ever be set free. 
What was his life like? Really like? 
Did he think of her? 
Did he attempt to conjure up what she 
looked like now?
Did he want to know if she still 
had his eyes? And 
perfect teeth?