Arm Candy

It’s the least she can do. They go to his office party. She clutches his left forearm, smiling and nodding while conjugating Italian verbs in her mind. What, Honey? A drink, yes, thank you. As she lets go, she thinks about the words for left hand, la mano sinistra. Why am I always so tired? She sinks into a chair and closes her eyes. Thoughts like pinwheels, cul de sacs, lost mittens. She sees a man’s wrist encircled by a strawberry licorice whip. She feels twisted. Io amavo, tu amavi, noi amovano. Her mantra.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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