Lust at the Cafe Formosa
Once, at the Cafe Formosa in L.A.,
I saw the most beautiful girl. And the
best part was, you could see she didn’t know it. Yet.
Didn’t know how anxiously her nipples strained
against her shirt, or that her endless legs
and sloe-eyed gaze were worth a million
bucks... to someone.
She was a sway-in-the-wind willow, her skin the
pale of vanilla ice cream, her hair all shiny black
straight like an Asian girl’s, thick as a mop.
She was maybe seventeen, on the brink, so ripe sex
exuded from her pores. She leaned against the juke box
fingering those quarters in her shorts’ pocket so
they jingled like Christmas, the fabric between
her thighs stretched to bursting.
When her food arrived, the girl unwrapped the
chopsticks, lifted Kung Pow chicken to her mouth,
inhaled the spicy morsels. A long, sauce-slicked
noodle played with her lips and I longed to lick it off.
I’d been alone four years by then, so
used to it even the longing had long departed.
Then she showed up, all fresh-spangled, clueless.
If I didn’t walk out then I never would. Elvis was
crooning Don’t Be Cruel, but I knew she would be.
Girls like her can’t help it.