266/365: Rainwater and Liars
I'm wet with rainwater and grimacing
under a tree dropping scoops of water down the back of my jacket.
It reminds of standing under another tree with someone years ago.
She declared the rain to be Such a panic! What a panic!,
speaking as though we lived in the 1960s,
which she claimed was because she had to learn English from old movies,
raised as she was by a grandmother who spoke nothing but Danish.
It turned out later that she was a fan of the era
and trying to cover her speech impediment with an inherited accent.
It was an endearing impediment,
her Ts softened to Ds with a thick-sounding tongue.
I hated her and could not say no.
There was glamour in the lies.
Her hands flourished against the weight of giant rings
while she told me about her childhood modelling career
and her refusal to teach her cats English so they would love only her.
She has been to the Sorbonne and lived in Berlin
and knew the famous painter, Attila Richard Lukacs.
She was her only chess piece moving along a disjointed line.
I think it was the random generosity of her lips
when they would brush my cheek with European intimacy
or steal my mouth in a dark corner before we turned to join the others.
I was her stolen fruit, discarded and found,
discarded and found.