Black Tights

S. K. Nicholas


Black tights, she wears black tights and her legs cross and uncross beneath the table as we wait for our food. It’s Waggamma’s on a Friday night after work. I’m drinking bottled beer while she sips a cup of green tea. The evening’s young and while her body speaks to me in a language that may or may not be Latin, the rain outside washes away our fears. Those curls of her hair- they could be symbols relating to some higher power, or perhaps they offer clues to what mood she’ll be in when I bite her neck in the back row of the cinema after we’ve finished our meal. Those breasts she pushes together whenever we lean forward and kiss- they could just well be the meaning of life, and as much as I’m the dramatic kind, I’m not exaggerating. When our fingers link together as she recites one…

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