Poetry Friday: The Word is BIRTHDAY

I'm tardy, blahblahblah, snow day on Friday, birthday party on Saturday, Super Bowl Sunday, yaddayaddayadda, here I am.

Poetry Friday!

Birthday!

Here we go!



John Bailey

It was the accent.

More than anything else.

It was the way his tongue flipped words in tantric circles, smoothed out the creases of a sentence, lifted a simple question into a curvy inflection that whispered in my ear.

“Can I take you out to dinner?”

It was my 21st birthday, and John wanted to make it special.

I borrowed Julie’s favourite sweater, squirted Halston on my wrists and neck, and propped myself up on heels. John arrived at my dorm room exactly punctually precisely at the appointed time.

He was wearing a suit.

I didn’t know college guys owned suits.

John was from London.
John was well-mannered.
John was my crush.

He drove me to Fancy Restaurant. Opened all doors. Gave me his arm. He ordered a bottle of wine and for most of the meal, I sat speechless. I had never before felt like the center of someone’s attention, so pampered and special.

I smiled so much my cheeks ached.

We languished at the restaurant until they started turning off the lights. John drove us back to the dorms, turned the car off, and reached for me.

We kissed a good long while.

Then, in his gentlemanly way, he escorted me to my room.
Kissed me again.
Said goodnight.
I closed the door as he walked away.

It was much later that John and I were intimate.
Once.
Because
for all his manners and genteel qualities,
For all his polite grace and witty dry humour,
John
Couldn’t
Get
It
Up.

The embarrassment embedded itself in his skin.
He blushed every time he saw me.
We were friends.
Good friends,
Just friends,
Who watched Monty Python til the wee hours
And told achingly bad jokes
And brightened when we entered a room together.

John Bailey took me out to dinner
On my 21st birthday.
John Bailey
Make me a queen
For a night.