Little Bit of Ivory
She’s got perfect skin. That’s what I remember most about her, when we’re apart. Perfect skin, the colour of new ivory. Long, long limbs and crazy hair, all piled up on her head as if she wasn’t tall enough already, the b***h.
(I don’t mean that spitefully, by the way. I love her.)
She never lets that hair tumble around her shoulders when we’re out together. Not when she’s out without me, either—and she’s out too often without me, has to be in her job. She travels, you see. All over the world, charming people (men) with her smile, her witchy-green eyes. Seducing them into giving her love-tokens, a name on a dotted line.
(I’d give her my name, if she asked for it. Or take hers, if that was what she wanted.)
Me? I sit at home, and I wait. I tap my fingers, and words
