a poetic prose
i unknowingly wore a red dress on a first date to a place where they sometimes kill bulls for sport. my date was dressed in all black. if looks could kill, we would have consumed each other greedily. he looked like sin, and i was dressed like regret. years later, we would both question whether it was symbolic of what would become of us. you are four years older and ask to split a four euro check. i should have asked, despite our coloring, who was the bull, and who was the matador.
at that time, we only drank coffee together. we were still in love with other people, and between sips of cold coffee, you declared, we would just be friends. i looked away and agreed. we both lied too easily. we still do. you said the same thing when you were sitting on my bed as you took off your favorite boots. i watched the silver rings on each of your fingers dance as you unbutton your shirt far too gracefully. i do not tell you that you look like antonio banderas in the eighties, my dream guy at the time, and you do not tell me you are in love with the dip of my eyelids that make my eyes dreamy and that they remind you of marilyn monroe’s but brown.
you pretend not to notice the blooming beauty mark similar to hers either. you did not taste like that bitter coffee when you kissed me hello. nor when you tied me to my bed, a place you would chain me to…
