what are your intentions

when I was twenty one I met
a nice Italian
girl who was nineteen.
after a few weeks of dating,
which involved me
beeping the horn of my Camaro
for her to come out
and get in, her father, Chuck, came
out and said.
son, let's talk. come on in.
so we did, me and him. we sat
on his plaid couch, next to
the fireplace.
so, what are your intentions
with my daughter, he asked
lighting a cigar
and leaning forward in his
white t-shirt
and green gabardine pants.
he rubbed his hands together
like a strangler
might do before committing
murder.
I immediately averted my
eyes, and rubbed my forehead.
well, I said. my intentions?
we were going out to see
a movie tonight and then maybe
grab a pizza.
no, he said. I mean over all
what are your intentions. in
the long run.
she's my girl, my baby, my sweet
potato. I don't want any harm
to come her way.
his nose was bent to one side,
and he had small cauliflower
ears, which I imagined he got
from his days boxing while
in the navy
well, my intentions are good, I said.
trying not think about the
twenty times we had already
had sex in the car and other
assorted places.
my intentions are solid, sir.
he rubbed his mustache, then put
his vise like hand out to shake
mine. okay, he said. standing
up, let's keep it that way.
home by 12? why not eleven, I said.
let's say, home by eleven.