Short Order

J.M. Gilliard

We were an accident
a dispute over an overdone omelet
in an all night diner.
Made brazen by her smile
and five cups of the road tar
that passed for coffee
I left an outrageous tip
and was rewarded with
a phone number hastily scribbled
next to the words
“come again”.

Our first date was Chinese
Just a little exotic, full of
signs and portents
riddles hidden in
egg drop soup and lo mein.
We spoke of the rock poets,
Dylan and the Doors
chainsmoking from
the same crumpled pack of Camels
over fortune cookie innuendo.

At her place
star charts taped
to the cabinet doors
and a beaded curtain
in every doorway,
I discovered her moon
was in Venus, while my
Scorpio was retrograde.
We danced while Morrison wailed
with her cat weaving its way
between my shuffling feet.

As the sun began to rise,
we lay tangled, half dressed
on a mattress in the floor
next to pile of dog-eared paperbacks.
While I toyed with the hoop
adorning the flat expanse of her stomach,
No trace of omelets here
she whispered in my ear
You kiss like a one night stand
her voice breathless, without reproach.

We were over, almost
before we began.
Started and quickly departed.
Some nights over black
coffee and folded eggs
I’ll hear the Lizard King reminding me
that people are strange
and I’ll remember when I kissed
a girl with nothing more than
that moment on my lips.

J.M. Gilliard lives in Torn\ado Alley in the Southern United States where he teaches Japanese martial arts in between his duties as a husband, father, and staff member at Lit.Org, a collective for aspiring writers. He has been published in Lost In The Dark and is currently working on his own upcoming ezine. E-mail: bartleby[at]

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