Published by Vestal Review
Like a fine Merlot. That’s what he said; that’s what he called me. And that wasn’t enough to put me off.
When a man says you’re like a fine Merlot and still you get in his car, make small talk about the famed restaurant where he reserved a table in the back, let him take your hand as you glide through the parking lot… you sort of have to say, yeah, I asked for it.
Like an apple in autumn, the blush in my cheeks. My eagerness at the menu—sure, I pointed; I love crab—like a schoolgirl on prom night. My smile like a cool slice of melon in August.
Like a script, I thought.