They let themselves in the back way,
avoiding prying neighbours’ eyes.
Leaving their shoes by the door,
they discard clothes,
piece
by
piece, as they pass
through rooms, but keep their socks
on like old fashioned porn actors,
feet sinking in thick carpet,
lustrous.
It feels like trespassing, like
they’ve entered a place they
don’t belong. “Maybe we’re ghosts,”
he says
lightly touching furniture
convinced
only this contact will prove he is,
in fact, in his mother’s house,
that he isn’t, in fact, a ghost, although
he never tells her this, just as
she doesn’t
confess
she still can’t decide
whether or not she loves him,
despite saying the words dozens of times.
The house smells of sachets and pot pourri,
a little floral,
a little spicy, figurines of flower bouquets,
hand painted porcelain petals blooming
in china pots, decorate the living room,
landscapes hang
over the chesterfield
and side board
and mantle.
She enjoys the quiet
of this suburban home,
no sounds of traffic
or sirens,
upstairs neighbours
or television sets, only the low hum
of central air filling the room, until
she notices his tapping;
a soft beat along the sofa,
a light thump,
thump,
then a rap on a tabletop;
two taps, a quick drag
with his index finger,
then another beat, lost in his rhythm.
He might have left a trail in dust,
if there was any dust to be found.
She preferred a solid paper trail,
found bits or photos,
newsprint pamphlets on Christ, a Monopoly game piece
(the car, found on a park bench), a motel receipt (Room 4,
an illicit affair, she hoped), four third place track and field
ribbons fixed together with a safety pin, a list of do’s and
don’ts that came with a new hair dryer (including #7:
Never use while sleeping), a birthday card ripped then
taped together again (many happy returns, Jack!),
she keeps in a box, and another box,
inside a trunk.
He leads her into the kitchen
where she leans
her naked body
against the counter
and reads aloud, advice
found on magnets, promotional items
from the local fire department; “Never give
fireworks to small children,” she announces,
before smiling at him,
a sweet smile,
almost tender, then adds,
“Alcohol and fire are a dangerous mix,”
this time attempting a frown that
he does not believe.
She likes his smile,
his thin lips that curl up on one side,
likes when he adds extra emphasis,
raising a brow and rolling his eyes
in mock ecstasy,
making her feel a bit light headed
so that she wonders if this is,
in fact, love
but doesn’t feel qualified to say.
He matches her words of wisdom
with some of his own, “Never leave
luggage unattended” he says; placing his hands
on either side of her,
angling in,
he adds,
“In case of snowstorm, always keep
chocolate and candles in the glove compartment,”
and she giggles, conscious
her flesh moves, despite standing still
and decides not to care.
She pushes herself up
from the counter, locking eyes
with him, standing straight,
attempting her tough girl stance.
“And if you must shoot,” she says
“Aim low.”
Without realizing, they both arrive
at the same conclusion, that perhaps
salvation is possible;
they might not lose their way if they
remember all the Dick Van Dyke
Saturday morning PSAs; to drop
and roll at the first sign of danger,
stick close to the floor in a smoke filled room,
don’t open a door if the handle is hot,
but they keep their thoughts to themselves
as silence returns
and only the chill of the late
afternoon between them.
They do
not touch,
their bodies,
a series of near misses.
