The Spike Triptych

by Milarca C. Kruse

My Platinum Baby

Thoughts of your smell and your smile creep into my mind, slowly invading my lungs, my chest, my hips.

I hurry, run home to make ready, the anticipation beating on my temples.

Thinking of your lips, your hands on my waist, your hardness (the only true compliment), poking my back as you kiss the curve of my neck while I wash the glasses for the ritual bourbon before we make the night ours.

I slide on the slippery, lacy things that are only yours to see in the hope of hearing you gasp.

Only the lowest cut, the tightest, the most towering heels will do.

I rim my eyes with black and curl my eyelashes.

I carefully stencil my lips and make them juicy, an over- provocation.

Fragrant, luxuriant drops consciously sprayed where I want your fingers and your tongue.

Behind my ears. The nape of my neck. Between my breasts. My navel, the break of my thighs.

Music that melts in my ears like delicate chocolate shavings, driving the rhythm of my expectations.

My hair frames me as a red, coppery halo.

Diamonds twinkle on my throat and lobes.

A sweltering summer evening but not a centigrade degree warmer than the creek of dew that flows below my waist.

I light up a cigarette.

I hear your black motorcycle pull up on my driveway.

You ring the bell. My bell.

I descend slowly the stairs for full effect to see you beam through the glass door. You kiss me. Raspberry-flavored bliss.

Marvin Gaye's voice pours out of my well-traveled boom box, sweet, sticky, thick and rich as ice-cold Southern Comfort. And as he sings it we get it on.

Conclusion—»