Homely Scenes

Your wet hair
inside a huge towel turkish-turban styled
your bare feet
flip-flopping around in king size plastic galoshes
the wet leftovers of your skin
hosted by a bathrobe missing one button and dragging the hem...
“no other queen
has ever been
more beautiful,”
I volunteered an unasked for half-rhymed opinion
munching on my microwave defrozen hamburger.

You spied my expression in the mirror,
looking for hints of good-humored mockery
weighing the brush against the nail-polish bottle
as a possible good-humored missile...
“other?”
you decided on the civilized way of settling disputes,
making words not wars.

I had to jump the species gap
so I wiped the mayonnaise leftovers on back of my sleeve
and repeated, empathically
“no other!”
hoping this would do the trick.

Women are probably as thick headed as they say
since you started undoing the towel turkish-turban styled
letting a cascade of undulating hair-thin ribbons embrace your neck...
“queen, you said?!...”
making it clear that it was not clear
and neither was the final punctuation in your voice clear to me...
“...so you think of me as a queen?”
you thankfully elaborated further
dropping one king-sized galosh to the floor,
the unmistakable sound of plastic meeting tile
sounding crystal tinkle to my ears.

Nothing was as thick as impassable to my flawless persuasive powers
once my mind set on digging out truths unknown
and facts unperceived by lesser minds... sorry...
“I don’t think,”
I insisted to be specific
and for whatever reason you nodded affirmatively
even before I finished my exposé,
women are mind readers probably, I hated to admit,
“you are a queen
and no other was ever more beautiful.”

There was sincerity in my voice,
why not - after all I was sincere,
the only thing I was unsure of
was if I placed ever in the right place in the sentence.
I picked a few crispy french fries
and munched on, delightedly.

You dropped the other king-sized galosh to the floor
and I didn’t even hear this one tinkling
as your hand reached instantly for the missing button
of that hem-dragging bathrobe,
and discovering the stupid mistake reached for the one higher up
then the one higher up
then the one higher up...
“you will choke to death...” you whispered
even though I don’t think I heard the words, merely imagined
as you picked up the dangerous mush from my petrified mouth
and dropped it to the floor
replacing it with a queenly tongue
specialized in unpetrifying the most stubborn of fossils.

Queens have a way with skins... theirs or not...
I found it out the kingly way.