Polkadots
She tosses polka dots over her shoulders, red and white voices giggling to strangers, “yoo-hoo cutie!” One false eyelash ready to pounce, one blue eye covering brown on the lookout. Bright pouty pouty lips pursed in thoughtful sexiness. Lemons are sexy aren't they? With sugar on pancakes. Hair of a tortured age where irons bind beauty too risqué for this world. Those cheeks. Face and derriere. Clothed in pink emphatically they spin tales of desire and promise. Broken and whipped into caramel spires, towers of old and new hold secrets not so far away. That sugar guilt that she knows she ought to feel. Flesh happily bouncing on some man's knee, on some man's…
Into her soft ears now trimmed with fake pearls were whispers and threats with reasons that would be revealed in retrospect. The time has not yet come and her mother dead so when will she know? They look real don't they? Love looks real like those candy people looking down. She has lived for that cake, she has dreamed what she was told to dream. She does not know how to eat it.
The polka dots titter among themselves, their time has come. Cat-calling the best man they want a last minute change in arrangements. Smiling lips, resplendent in pearly pink, heralding a new age. She felt the lines up the back of her legs all these years and remembered that she was told binding is purpose. White stockings with no seams she is released to him. White white white is the time and she says, “White white white I will be for you”. He cuts her a slice and the candy couple are left on the edge of reason. Licking her lips the tint comes off, easily. More easily than she had prepared for.
* Emma Rozanski describes herself as a writer, filmmaker, creative dogsbody and other such delights.
