Ice Cream Legs

She is a knobbly-kneed vision on an old pair of quad boot skates.  Like a new fawn, she falls and I snatch her up to a table outside the drug store and buy her an old fashioned  parfait, while I dab the blood flowing out her white flank like the ribbon of cherry syrup through the vanilla ice cream.

I call a cab. At her nod, I join. As we roll through Queens, I confess all my sins and tell her we are the same. Good people with bad instincts. I lay a hand on her knee, and I realize I am monstrous.

We reach her place. She lets me in. No one is home.

No. I say and yet follow. She tosses the skates, hands me a whiskey and kneels, tugging off my Fryes engineers.

I cannot do this. I plead and search for my boots under the sofa.