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At The Poetry Fest

Steven was so exceptionally handsome and charismatic, her face flushed when he approached. Lowering her eyes, she remembered her grandmother's admonition: "Eye contact is for sexual purposes only. It is to be reserved for your husband before bed." Steven noticed, but continued to look directly into her eyes, twinkling with his forward mischief.

"You feel it too?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," she admitted. "But fortunately, I'm married."

"Fortunately? Don't you mean 'unfortunately'?" He invented a persona with a weird accent and mocked, "Unfortunately, I'm married!"

"No, I said it right."

People were coming up and shaking hands, hugging, and kissing cheeks after a long and busy day, interrupting Joan and Steven's first conversation. The bartender was pushing unwanted green drinks towards them, sent over by other people. Little lights were swirling around the room like fireflies. The soft and smooth background pianist was being bumped off his bench by a loud honky-tonker. Conversation reached a crescendo.

"Why 'fortunately,' may I ask?"

"Because if it were possible, we'd fall into bed so hard and fast, we'd tip over the planet."

He exploded with laughter. Play acting with his head in the air, spinning on his heels, he announced backwards over his retreating shoulder, "Lady, that's the best 'pick up - get lost' line I've ever heard."

Watching his metamorphic back stroll away in his custom silver suit, she knew that was not the last she would ever see of him.

Story by:

Ruth Hill

submitted at 6:15am

7 May 2012