How about Drinks?

She played a piccolo; and so academic; and I walked a stick.

I watched her perform: such aesthetic; and so esoteric. Her

Ego danced every note: her personality—a collage; and she

Valued aloofness; and thus, I was so aloof; even mysterious.

I would stare intently, and nod my head—as if to ponder

Deep: such artifice: such desire. I wanted attention! Her

Attention. She fancied my ruse and said: “Why not just speak.”

I nearly froze—a hidden column: somewhere adrift. We

Spoke the nocturne, and jest over small matters. I felt bold:

“How about drinks.” She ignored me, and uttered: “What of

This painting?” I spoke of form, tone, and theme: she spoke

Of ‘cept, color, and texture. Our trance was hypnotic: our

Dance exotic; and such design, a scheme of artifice; and we

Nibbled tension: such anxiety; and something sighed: “Grab

Her hand.” She glared intently, and said, “Yes.”