Reservations by Meg Pokrass
Toni remembered how, on their first date, she and Tom traded tongues at a French Restaurant, told each other, “no, no, no…”
Tom had laughed at her bout of hiccups. She squawked, holding her breath.
“Done?” Tom said, smiling.
A nice looking silver haired couple walked past their table, following the hostess. Their teenage daughter tagged behind them, pretty and angry looking – her cheeks red. Tom’s gaze followed the girl.
Tom said he was a magician, demonstrated how to fold a cloth napkin into a hat.
“Ah,” Toni said. “Perhaps, but…” She sketched a big-lipped woman on the cloth hat with her dark blue eye pencil.
His eyes flickered even when the low-breasted hostess walked by. She had a parrot voice when people came in, said “Good evening, do you have reservations?”
“That’s funny,” he said. “We got in without reservations.”
He leaned forward. Toni kissed his mouth. His breath reminded her of frosting from the bottom of a glass bowl.
© 2009 – 2010, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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The simplicity of this piece gives the moments a deeper breath to follow, and to sip from.
Your words congeal and tantalizes the senses and the attention span.
Your words give gravity where gravity would normally overpower; but in the end, i am left to gently stroke behind the ears of gravity.
THanks Meg.