My Cardboard Balcony

Sweaty Shoes by Belinda Roddie Popping a gag reflex behind my tongue, I spread my fingers across the jagged stencil pyramids of city halls and opera houses, tipping the licorice brim of my cowboy hat to catch the sunlight in a halo around my Medusa hair. We met on the corner between disregard and disrespect, determined to lock teeth and laugh, spit in each other's mouths and chew winter mint splinters scraped from fresh tar stuck to the soles of your boots and the soul of the bartender we said hello to as we hid our eyebrows behind cherry pie pints. You asked my legs to dance, my hands to steer, and my eyes to kiss the whiskers springing from under your scully cap, tweed homecoming from your father, who watched from the smoked ham corner of the cigar section, squeaking red from his jaw and coughing approval out of his nose as you yanked my skull like a caught yo-yo and snapped me back to you as I sprinkled the floor with sweat and wine and strawber

I wasn't exactly able to satisfy you. Not with beer. Not with wine. Not with cider or sweet, sweet nectar. Candlelight didn't suit you. Music wasn't much better. And the kisses turned to smoke against our lips like we were lighting cigarettes without generating warmth. You held me for a moment before letting me slip into the cotton, the blades of cerebral grass rising up to meet my disappointed frame. You weren't interested; fair enough. But I tried. I really tried.