Ian Felton

Can't Stop Now

I’ve known her exactly seventeen days, one hour and thirty minutes. Right now she’s over the Atlantic Ocean. I might be having a dream about a sensitive caiman, not eager to bite into me, as I swim in its strange waters, when she walks off the jet way in Paris. After the first date, I told the other girls I couldn’t see them. She held my hand on the second date, in the basement of the Soap Factory where we were chased by imps and exposed to a ghoulish, shaggy mons pubis. The third time we met, she walked right up to me, standing in front of my car across the street from her condo, and kissed me on the lips. The next weekend I cooked her spicy beef curry in my apartment. We yelled ‘Yahtzee’ three times. Under the light of a pink octopus’ head, we half-undressed and let our mouths and hands feel around. Her body: muscles and also softness in the places I want them. Her face: eyes of an animal, features of an actress, hair of a woman.  Last night before she left the continent, we met again. I thought, “Maybe tonight we’ll do everything,” but I didn’t really believe that. We watched Kenneth Branagh adapt Shakespeare. The transition into the bedroom was faster, but the pants still weren’t coming off. We boarded the train going to “Let’s Not Screw This Up.”

Wind flooded chasm...
Frustrated thighs and pelvis
Hands on a red thong. Stop.