More jaundiced eyes might charge she pouted every one of her words. But
my vision was more forgiving, seeing as I was in thrall to her beauty. So I
would submit, the way speech puckered her lips was more akin to a child blowing
bubbles. With the same blend of beguilement and tremulousness; breath bated hoping
they would sustain and float, rather than evanesce and dissolve. Close my eyes
and hearing the timbre, I picture her with the heel of her open hand osculating
her chin, so that she could blow the word-kisses from her palm runway, as if helping
a ladybird take wing. But when those gossamer words that take so long to sail
across to me, finally moor at my ear canal, their brutal lading becomes plain. Iron waspish sting delivered by the tip of a velvet tongue.
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