The Visit

©The Visit

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved

sure, he loved his pretty girl with blonde strands and full, bow-shaped lips that looked like she was always ready to kiss someone.

we watched her sitting there on the edge of Madras-covered cushions with her hands folded in her lap as though she were about to bow her head in prayer and her smoky-slate, salamander eyes fixed in a wide stare because she thought she was in an evil West coast drug house she'd probably read about or heard someone talk about back East, but she wasn't and our leased-for-the-week, lake-front house was clean, as were we.

and so she waited like a muscled, boy-bodied surrealist juxtaposed with some imagined reality of death.

we all knew that for him sex was his one and only holy grail, the important thing in life; we wondered did she know that?

she was his arm candy, his carousel-golden ring, his sweet little toy with a wicked, sensual, unvirtuous smile and when those smoky eyes fell on me, my heart stopped because I used to be his sweetheart, his sexy lady, his she-belongs-to-me, his pretty brunette cowgirl with Shirley-Temple ringlets flowing down my back like a mermaid's tresses.

my current and permanent boy toy and I understand each other's levels of craziness and bone daddy doesn't talk to me in that authoritarian-with-jumbled-thoughts way and when he gazes at me, I know there isn't another god-like lover and Thor-like protector; so I inhaled and exhaled slowly until the tattoo from my heart met the steady pace of my silent mantra and I smiled at her like she was some diet-pill hallucination.

my sister's eyes flashed left then right then left and back and forth as though she was watching some tennis match of silent communication between his baby girl and me while Sis' husband eyed the eye candy's spread legs; I wondered if he was trying to see up that dark tunnel under her skirt and between those long legs to determine was she wearing panties.

the only thing scarier than hitch hiking to Haight-Ashbury with him—where his sister's black-tar-junkie John called us polka-dot people because we had calamine patted on pussy poison oak sores—were the Mardi Gras, drunk ass and boob grabbers and being sent to the highway, heading out of Vegas, at night while he stayed out of sight and mafia types stopped their crowded boat-people auto to pick me up with that oh-what-we're-gonna-do-to-you look in their eyes and I had to wonder what horrific tales of terror she could share.

Miles Davis played on the 'puter's radio when they had to get going  and before they headed for their dog-kennel on wheels, we all smiled and hugged and shook hands and Sis' hubby hugged eye candy a second time copping a feel of her nonexistent boobies with his middle-age chest and Sis giggled and slapped her hubby's right bicep playfully and called him a dirty old man, which he still is to this day, and boy toy and I strolled to the water's edge where he enveloped me in his arms and nuzzled my nape and gave it a suggestive bite and I knew everything I needed to know.