In which all is fair
The hearts in the air are visible.
Her hands are locked at the small of his back,
His arm snugged around her waist.
Unfortunately for the girl behind them, every besotted peck
Rams his shoulder into her grittedly neutral face. His lady’s
Scent courses up nostrils with the delicacy of turpentine,
Dissolving each follicle in its path.
At least I’m not that girl behind them, whose neutral façade is belayed by eyes that burn with a
Yearning to take her bag strap, wrap around cooing necks, pull.