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My sailor came into port late on Wednesday…a brief layover. At first I didn’t recognize him. He has a crewcut now, his long locks strewn into the algaed sea. He was wearing shiny black engineer boots, the kind with a big strap and a buckle. His navy blue muscle shirt was faded out to the palest blue, nearly white, by the blazing ocean sun. He was thin in a movie-cool way.
He has found God.
Me? My breathing was all erratic. I was gasping, nervous, skintight. I never expected to see him again. You know how the ocean swallows things up, people included. Somehow he escaped the siren’s song.
(Whoo..a doe just carolselled through my front yard!)
Okay, back to my sailor…
I’m chatting with him and lightning is snapping at the river. I may be electrocuted at any moment.
It seemed like I was talking to my sailor, just a different version. He said he has done bad things and now he has his hands on the bible. I did like the way he used words, tossing them around like metallic glittery confetti. They were even spelled correctly. My words were a frightful mess. Then again some of his words were put together in the way I construct a sentence, a phrase. I don’t like men (or anyone else) to talk the way I do. It’s cheap. You can’t build yourself upon another person. One ex-chameleonesque boyfriend tried that. I spit him into the burn pile.
Ah! But I am curious as to what those “bad things” were. I hope he will open up, give me the juicy details. I need to know if I am the worse sinner of all.
It may be time to release some secrets.
