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” Sarah brushed the comment aside. "I don't know what you mean baby,” she responded. “You know what my job is like! You worked there for a little while and you of all people should understand." Sarah sat down at the table crossed her legs and dangled her foot as she smiled up at Lucy and said, "Care to join me, my future wife? Come!” Lucy stepped towards Sarah, took her hand into hers and kissed it gently. Lucy wanted to ask her right then and there about the perfume but she held off. "I would love to sit and have a romantic dinner under the moon with my Sarah.” Lucy smiled. Bending down to kiss Sarah on the lips, Lucy pulled out the other chair and sat. “Hope you like my spaghetti!” Lucy said while twirling her fork in the pasta. She held it up to Sarah’s mouth. “Say Aah!” Sarah parted her lovely lips and took the spaghetti from Lucy. “This sauce is amazing,” Sarah said. “And I am so hungry! You will have to teach me to be as good a cook as you!” she added, going for another. "Just a second," came from beyond it. The voice sounded rough and slovenly like an old drunk bum. The door finally opened. The young poet looked gaunt. "Oh hi." he said, returning to the yellowed unmade bed.After introducing my sister, the princess asked, "How's the writing going?" Fine," he said with a half grin. He didn't resemble the young poet we knew. Bringing up the subject would have him rushing to his notebook. The last time I'd seen him I enjoyed a group reading. Afterwards we went to a local beer hall with his fellow poets and he discussed a new theory, and despite the cool he always layered over his wildness, his excitement burned hot. It had a profound influence. It added to the epiphany in Paris. He compared a poem to a human body. Each line breathed a single breath. Each syllable pumped a heartbeat. Each word sparked the brain creating thought. Every phrase became a confluence of sparks. Every sentence ordered the confluences. The page in which the body of the poem.
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