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e.e.c. and baker's dozen

Every Tuesday night I listen to WFHB's Baker's Dozen. I like the program for the jazz and ballads he plays. He knows his music and will always play my requests. I think he expects my weekly call and anticipates what I will request. Then he plays one of his own, usually something that he knows I would like.
Last week it was Ellington's "Daydream" and some Cole Porter. I also requested an old favorite love song called "You Go to My Head". He promised over the airwaves to find it for this week.
Lilly and I were bathing by candlelight, a nightly occurrance for us while listening to his program. After the painfully long Lotus promo (yawn) he finally got around to playing some tunes. Mine was first. The second, a Billie Holiday tune that was out of this world

For one moment I felt like someone was doing something amazing for me.


my girl's tall with hard long eyes
as she stands, with her long hard hands keeping
silence on her dress, good for sleeping
is her long hard body filled with surprise
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles
a hard long smile it sometimes makes
gaily go clean through me tickling aches,
and the weak noise of her eyes easily files
my impatience to an edge--my girl's tall
and taut, with thin legs just like a vine
that's spent all of its life on a garden-wall,
and is going to die. When we grimly go to bed
with these legs she begins to heave and twine
about me, and to kiss my face and head.

september 12

The door slammed shut in her face and she felt the wisps of hair move with the sudden breeze. The exchange which seemed like years before was brief and cold. And the familiar taste of embarrassing shame flooded her mouth like so many sips of rancid wine fermenting too many years in the bottle.

He was shirtless and barefoot upon answering the door-- A familiar look that carried no pretense or suggestion. As she entered into the sparse front living space, he put his shirt back on, the first of a few exchanges that collected in her mind like bad episodes of nausia. He sat back down at the table where he had been working, closed the box of cheez-its (the second exchange) and looked at her with loathing. He had already distanced himself; protecting himself from feeling or truth. She tried to make light of his demeanor by laughing-- nervously picking the label off her beer bottle, but the desired effect didn't come. She looked down at the bottle wondering why she came.

Her face was flush as he spoke the words; his voice steady, unfeeling, as if reading a directive for a standardized test or scolding a small child. She put the bottle on the uneven table and watched the change below scatter. His toes were thin and dainty, one foot crossed over the other.

She knew this would be the last of their exchanges: the last time being so close to him, the last time she would be in a room alone with him. The tuber roses were wilting on the counter behind him.

They sat in silence as she finished her beer, she stood and said goodbye, waiting for him to respond.
He walked again with purpose to the door, as if getting rid of a magazine salesman or a zealot Christian and the door was closed. They both sighed--his a sigh of relief, hers a sigh of heartbreak.