Friday evening coffee shop

Friday evening coffee shop:

Barista beauty
with the cropped brown hair
pulled back in a ponytail
and creamy white skin
and crooked smile, so sweet and pure.

Every time she turns
to reach for a cup of coffee,
she flashes a ribbon of skin,
silky and pliant like kneaded dough,
between her flower-pattern shirt and jeans.

I want to stroke her cheek
with the back of my fingers,
push away her tears with my thumbs.
I want to talk about Jung
and play her Miles Davis albums
after running my tongue over her body
tasting all of her,
inhaling every vestige of her
salty, virginal essence.

* * *

I stir sugar and cream into my coffee
and take my seat
at the end of a row of tables,
looking down the isle—
a leg in fishnet stockings grabs my attention.

My eyes follow her fishnets
up to the hem of her jean skirt
and into the vee of darkness between her thighs,
staring and imagining me pressing up against her
and
slipping my hand under her skirt
and
feeling the wetness of her moist, full lips through her panties,
before I realize that only one leg has fishnets—
the other is a stump
with a metal prosthetic fastened just above the knee,
her matching aquamarine pump attached to the other end.
She catches me staring at her
and looks at me, self-conscious and reproachful.
She doesn’t see that I am turned on nonetheless—
not by her handicap
but by her womanliness,
her full thighs hiding her fecundity shielded in total darkness.

I would love to part her creamy thickness
and slip into her swollen wetness.
I want to pin her fishnetted ankle
back with my left hand
while rubbing her clit with my right,
fucking her faster
and faster
and harder,
her metal peg with the aquamarine pump draped over my shoulder,
until we both explode in spastic waves of pleasure
and collapse into a pile of molten, glistening flesh.

Friday evening coffee shop.