Flowers for Lisa

I made a pencil scratch on the table. A little crescent, its edge curving like the arch of her back against the light. The clock’s hands pull long shadows across the wall, pointing to the window where she will, in approximately five minutes wander by, meandering lampposts, car meters, cyclists, dogs, people. A tune whispering in her ears, smile caught on her lips. Crossing the receding tarmac in the fading light.

Here are some flowers for Lisa. Pink, orange, gold. The sweet scent sprinkling garden-freshness in the room. And here is my heart laid plain on paper, a warm wet thing throbbing with desires.

I twirl the pencil and make a moue.

A breeze whisks the curtains. The same breeze that will flip her hair from her eyes.  Soulful and blue, like a string plucked on a double bass.