She’s a Flirt

There she is
A blood-red buoy
Our eyes lock
She licks her swollen lips
Her stiletto nail circles the rim of her martini glass
My hands are jealous of her dress
Will she? Does she?
She grazes my upper thigh
Her cold porcelain hands
push my skirt over my knee
Her fingers softly close
around my windpipe
She pulls me in, fish on hook
My mouth is wide open
She fogs me like a windshield
Then—she pulls away
Ice to water
Water to gas
Breath to air

Oh how I flirt with death.