DEAD BEAT FLIRT.

A BOY AND GIRL IN A BRIEF ENCOUNTER IN 1974

Shamira looks
at the sleeve
of the LP:
Mahler's 6th,
box set.

You shouldn't
spoil me.

Summer evening,
a country lane,
high hedges.

I wanted you
to have it;
it's what I think
you'll enjoy.

You can't afford
to buy me
these gifts;
you don’t have
to buy me anything.

I know;
I want to.

We go
to the local pub
and she has a wine
and I have a beer.

We sit outside,
watching the sun setting.

How are your parents?

She looks at me.

My mother's ok,
but my father's
not sure of you.

Thought not;
the way he looks at me;
different class,
I guess.

I sip my beer;
she sips her wine.

I like her
long brown hair,
tied in a ponytail;
her brown eyes,
sharp,
not deceived,
intelligent.

He worries about me,
she says,
wants the best for me.

Can't blame him;
I’m just a nurse
and poet.

She smiles.

It's more than that,
he looks to the future,
wants me up there
where my education
and grooming
is setting me.

Do you see me
as holding you back?

I don't look at things
like that;
it is people in themselves
that matters.

I light up a cigarette;
she sips her wine.

Anyway, I’m off
to university next month,
so I won't see
you that often,
she says.

Guess not.

I know she'll meet
other of her class there;
more educated,
more moneyed.

Our brief encounter
will be a history;
our love making
an episode
or margin note
in the book
of her future life.

I inhale;
I like
how she looks;
I like her small breasts;
her neat
compact body
poured into her jeans
and tee shirt;
she a father's princess,
me
a dead beat flirt.