“I admire your car’s rear end,” I told her on that one August afternoon.
She smiled.
She took another bite of her Triple Garlic gyro all the while sitting on the hood of her bronze car, her body also bronze from that Summer of Love and Passion and Short Shorts (SoLaPaSS).
She held up her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun. She was smart. She was formulating a response to my meta-metaphor.
She stopped chewing and spoke. “Remember that time on my parent’s porch when I showed you how to shuck oysters? And you told me ‘I was a pearl?’”
I blushed.
“Point taken,” I said.
She was good, verbally.
Yet, she was no fan of Wordsworth, but I recited a poem to her anyway, to wit:
“Morning train; and Desire?
Interrupted.
On silken sheets
A Volcano tamed
Before the afternoon is done.”
“I hear that poem,” she started, “and I think, ‘Your Love can be like a bite of leftover pizza: Cold with limp sausage.’”
I balked.
“But,” she said, “you’ll probably get to Second Base anyway.”
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