mama told me not to come

"who wears white socks anymore anyway?" she wonders.

she tries not to look down, or ahead, for that matter. his moustache is desperately in need of a trim. his breath is tired.

in the damp chill of the café, they shuffle passively, nearly together, nearly apart, his indifferent hand on the small of her back.

"is this all there is?" she wonders again, smelling coffee and cabbage and longing for roses.

if only the accordion would move on to a livelier melody, if only the heartless lights would glow pink and flattering: she swings her hips, and her skirt, in frustrated anticipation.

her soul was made for passion.

and these high blue heels were made for clicking, for candor, and for complete and utter coquetry.

that's why she bought them in the first place.