My Cardboard Balcony

Watercolor Roses by Belinda Roddie Your elbows glow orange in the lamp light. My cheeks are streaked with pinks and golds. The hair of your brush is saturated with the hues of a summer garden, and while I cannot pick any of the plants you've grown from your palette, I can at least admire them from my chair. I pour you another glass of Cabernet. You let a drop spill onto each painted petal, burgundy swirling with indigo, crimson with magenta, red with mauve. When I spot a bit of white left behind, I dip my fingers into the cup and let the water crystallize in greens to make a new stem. You'll let the bud bloom, set down your tools, and kiss me hard enough to make my mouth wet like a waterfall of wildflowers.

"Um, excuse me," squeaked the teenaged girl. "I ordered the prime rib? This is a T-bone steak." I heard the waiter scoff at her, the little tuft of red hair quivering on his chin. "Honey, do you even know the difference?" "I may be only sixteen, but I know my goddamn meat." The girl looked the scrawny server up and down. "Not that you know what it's like to have some meat on you - whether or nor it's hidden in your pants."