tavopp
Mar 23
“Come on, baby,” he says and kicks a stone off the curb, “you know you love me.”
We look at them as if through a knothole in a fence; there is faceless flirtation in the criss crossed shapes, hope in the bright noon-day sun, joy in the yellow stucco.
In her white leather sandals with a hand resting delicately against a denim covered thigh, she leans against a window sill. Above the knothole, she smiles, tilts her head playfully and says “Maybe”.
“Come on, baby,” he nudges her with a canvas clad toe, “you know you do.”
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