PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She had met him twice before in different bodies. The first was in the form of a bass player in a blues band gigging at Twist & Shout in Bethesda. He kept staring at her from the stage, so much so that she turned around more than once to see if there was some other girl standing behind her. At the end of the set he came to her table, sat down and kissed her without any introduction. That was how they spent the rest of the night, making out on doorsteps all up and down Auburn Avenue, until the roadie tapped him on the shoulder and said it was time to go. With the dawn just beginning to lighten the city skyline, he climbed into a van with California plates and off he went. The most romantic night of her life and she hadn't even gotten his name. That would have ruined the magic wouldn't it. 

The second time she met him was on the subway. He looked more like he did now, not as tall and lanky as the bass player, but with the same doppelganger looks and dark unruly mop of hair, longish and a little bit curly. She saw him every few days or so, getting on at DuPont Circle. He never sat down but stood just inside of the sliding doors, stealing glances at her from behind horn-rimmed glasses, exiting two stops later at Van Ness until the day he stayed on past his stop and at the end of the line where she disembarked she grabbed him by the hand and led him to her car, fucked him senseless and left him standing in the parking lot zipping his jeans with a look of perplexity on his face. She was perplexed too, she had never had sex with a stranger neither before nor since. In fact both scenarios were uncharacteristic for her, the former maybe not so much as the latter. And both times it felt as if something greater was at work, something not of her own volition. Or maybe it was that in those moments she really let herself go with the flow instead of impeding it with her self-imposed rules of conduct.