Friday, June 7, 2013

How I Knew He Was Trouble

I knew he was Trouble
by the way he smiled
when he learned my name
and put a face and a body
and legs-in-a-dress
to a voice he’d heard on the phone
and how I was,
in that moment,
exquisitely aware that I am a girl.

I knew he was Trouble
by the way he leaned toward my car
with the palms of his hands on the window ledge
and the curl of his fingers over the rim
touching the inside of the door, and
how I noticed the strength and shape of his hands
as the sunlight danced over 
the downy hair and muscles 
of his beautiful forearms.

I knew he was Trouble
by the way his eyes stayed on mine
that color of brown I could drown in
taking in everything about me all at once
in a pleased sort of way
and by the way he was easy in his own body
as he chatted with me and how
the plane of his chest and the curve of his shoulders
held up his shirt that barely touched his belly
and by the way his jeans fit over his thighs.

I knew he was Trouble
by the way his eyebrow shot up
and his nose crinkled disbelievingly
and his hips shifted outside my car door
when I explained why I was in the parking lot
and used the words ‘preschool’
and ‘granddaughter’ and I knew by the way
his eyes looked me over and he repeated the word
‘granddaughter’ as a question 
in a snorting sort of way,

I knew he was Trouble
by the way I whooped out loud
as I drove out of the parking lot
and pounded the steering wheel
and told God,
‘Now that’s what I’m talking about!’
and the way I laughed at how I always want
the 30-something-year-old
and by the way the image of his glowing forearms
and the shape of his thighs in his jeans
and the color of his eyes as they took me in
kept returning to me
all day.