The Song of a Saturday Siren

As you crush against her, will you start with a treble tremble? Count to three and say a tentative “hello’’ before you take her to the next bar.

You listen to her accent and think: This could be the start of something.
Her friend’s still with you. Honestly, she’s a beaut but an unwelcome accompaniment, unless she plans on staying until the end.

You ditch her for awhile. Back to the first her, who’s been walking along the whole time — Pretty lively. Pretty alive. Pretty.
Adagio to Allegro, as you race through the city streets in search of the night and a warm thing to put in your belly. The notes are still pouring out of you.

Her shrill voice turns bassey as she looks you in the eyes and invites you to the bridge. You run up its sides and decrescendo into a drunken, tumbling heap.
She’s playing on your heartstrings, beckoning to the wood.

Start with crotchet kisses, then a minum on the lips — move your hands to a second on the hips, but it’s not long before things have changed again and there’s a sense of urgency now that sort of came out of nowhere.

You’re back at her house and her body quavers and you’re long past the semi, right in the middle of some majestic crescendo. And as you reach the final climax, you split into two parts. For a second your eyes meet and you think Maybe we could play like this forever but instead you say: “I’m almost ready to go back to the bar”.

You want to say, “Let’s stay here” but instead you inhale, exhale, ponder on it for a second.

Then you blurt out, like it’s as casual as a 4/4 step, ‘‘You know what? I think I just need a quick rest”.