Like schoolyard children trading licks,
they match each other stroke for stroke.
His fingers tug the silk around
his neck. He nods and winks, assured
he can't be beat. "You don't wear ties."
She rolls her eyes and softly laughs,
the game's too easily won, "Bras."
Impressed, he rolls his sleeves and swings,
"Wool blazer mixed with summer sweat."
She smiles, bemused, then waves him off
with sculptured nails and "Pantyhose."
Undaunted by his stalwart foe
(but just a bit too eager now),
he utters words of crash and burn:
"Expensive, hand-stitched shoes... pinched toes."
Before the words escape his mouth,
he knows he's lost. She knows it too.
Her painted lips pressed in a line,
she glances down (and so does he)
then back at him. A smirk, no words.
Quite rankled by his latest miss,
he takes a breath, then plays his trump.
With macho flair he boasts, "I shave."
Convinced he's won, he doesn't see
her smile. She reaches out and runs
those nails right up his silken tie.
One finger resting on his lips,
she moans the words she knows
will end the game, "Bikini line."
Copyright © 1995 Claire A. Schaeffer