Crisp, by Meg Pokrass

You’d think he would take an afternoon tea break, what with his British accent, hungry face, slow eye movements. But no – he was averse to caffeine. The best way to wake up, he explained , was a brisk mile walk. I was getting used to his strong ideas.

Still – it confused me when he confessed that he hated to see a woman “bare”. I fiddled with my robe – tried to hide the crisp ice of my breasts. He liked to finger, not see, that was clear.

In the middle of the night I found myself in the kitchen slurping lemon yogurt with a fork. Perhaps I wanted it to feel wrong. I would braid my hair, slip quietly into the living room, hold the warm cat.


2 responses to “Crisp, by Meg Pokrass

  • David James

    Meg, you are everywhere, it seems. And when I get to those places, I am so happy to find another of your story jewels. Sometimes I’ll even find your find your poetry, like ripe fruit hanging there just waiting to be plucked and enjoyed. And I do.

  • julesjustwrite

    Love the visual imagery in this. Very crisp, cool with the lemon yogurt. All around Meg Pokrass goodness.

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