The Traveller by Afrodykie

Sizzle sizzle, it’s the solstice
THERE she is, again. The blonde. The striking blonde.
You’ve exchanged knowing smiles at Kafene, for about two/three days now.
Souls speak all on their own, you know. They light up faces.
She sits and writes outside, in her notepad. Neatly and with no deletions.
You sit inside and focus on your computer. Type type type.
But on Thursday afternoon she comes zooting up the hill on a flashy fast scooter.
She turns off the ignition and swings her right leg over the seat, over the handlebars, you swear.
Black silk underwear — a titillating triangle — it gleams and pauses; it lights up the slow Eressian sunset.
It blinds you, and the shopkeeper.
Even the walruses at Kalones, their coffee cups hang in mid air.
You gasp and say Phew, That’s Sexy.
Oh, everybody’s sexy, believe me, says the shopkeepr, and lowers his eyelids to hand a packet of dog food to you.
Flashy walks towards us — no, she floats goddamit. Are those angels you hear.
What’s that singing, those sweet voices, so tremulous in their rapt desire.
Are you in heaven.
Flashy buys an ice cream.
We meet again, she says to you, and bites into her ice cold treat.
You and the shopkeeper crack jokes, you know, kind of bawdy lewd locker-room jokes.
Double entendre hits Eressos! Levity, at last! Fun!
We’re all circling each other on the pavement in front of his shop.
You and he, you try to outsmart each other, to get her attention.
You’re all flirting like hell and laughing so loudly the whole square stops, and smiles.
You’d heard her say she works at the community centre.
What community centre, you ask.
The Osho Afroz centre, she says.
And licks her lips.
Do you like men or women.
The words patter out over the chocolate chunks dotted on her tongue.
I like you, you say.
Ha ha and drattykins. Her boyfriend’s arriving in August.
Striking? What does it matter, when it’s strike out — for the shopkeeper, and you!


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