Laura

roe belushi

She's Lola to me.  Most people call her that, it's not just my special pet-name.  I'm talking about a specific person here, but you probably know her too.  She might have been that older girl in high school who rolled you blunts because yours were too loose, fell apart, didn't pull.

That sexy machiavelli smile.  Eyes calm and aquatic like a beckoning ocean hiding its undertow.  She says things like, "Watch it, cuz," and "I've got a homie who can get that for you," and "We haven't even started yet baby."  Her hair is black and straight like it was shaped from obsidian, shimmering snake-like even in this chiaroscuro club.

She dances.

                And she dances.

She dances when she walks.  Her hips swishing, but without the manicured glamour of cat-walk strolls or sudden t-stops.  A Barbara Stanwyck sexual exuberance, a thickness, that vargas curvature from grandpa's day.  Not mere pulchritude, but something forming platonic before me as I remember that night we had together--I learned that despite my experience, I was still a boy.  Every time I call her she answers and I hear her friends laughing behind her in a succubus circle.  Strapless dress.  Tight.  Bright.  Color.  Confounding.

When I ask her where we're going tonight she doesn't say, "Anywhere you want," or "It doesn't matter to me."  Last night I beat Johnny Knoxville at pool and she cheered by usurping his beer and handing it to me, wagging her ass at his bitch.

Every time she sneezes it's a powdered doughnut.  I'm high with her.  The only time she's sewn was to turn her new red dickies into a skirt.  When we're alone I don't have much to say, yet lust is lugubrious enough.  We've exchanged our particular vows.  We've brokered our tacit agreements.  I would fall in love with her

        if she were Laura to me.