I felt his gaze the moment he entered.
medium height, broad shoulders, grey hair.
maybe from germany. I didn't hear him speak.
I crouched above the box with fish pate, pasting prices.
my white duster heavily unbuttoned, almost completely, I realized.
nothing underneath. it was a sultry day, and a duster
makes you feel cramped. I liked to leave my panties at home.
I'm not especially pretty, the way I am, delicate and freckled,
though with tall islanders legs, shaped by rocks and thickets.
finished by waves, scirocco and gale taking turns.
maybe I'm not a beauty, but my legs are really lovely.
he stood petrified. couldn't avert his eyes.
as if he never saw a woman's tuft. or, perhaps,
he never saw it under a duster. it gave it
a special softness and enigmatic quality. and
that little curl shiny in the counterlight: as if I
flung a fish-hook behind a cape and a fish swallowed it
instantly and wouldn't let it go. I already intended
to get up, when his stare pinned me down. I couldn't move.
it was a hypnotic paralysis, or even something worse.
then the story got screwed up by an italian with a fat lady.
he walked in, yelling and storming between the customers.
together with that woman he positioned himself between us,
in front of the refrigerator with milk and cheeses.
nice moments are clearly short-lived. I saw the grey head
move to the cashier. I rose and buttoned up
three accidentally loose buttons. is it tuesday today?
after work i'll stay home. that's all one gets from certain days.