She laughs and giggles
at my Southern drawl---
thick from drink,
pronounced and rolling
slowly off the tongue.
She twirls her hair,
touches my arm, and
staring into my eyes,
asks where I am going.
I tell her the cliché line
every guy says:
“wherever you are going.”
We call a taxi and head
to her hotel room
a few blocks away.
Her skin, kissed by the sun,
glows in the halogen light,
leaving a pale line
encircling her finger
her fiancé will never know.
