her boots

do you like my boots,
she asks,
spinning around with a drink
in her hand,
wearing only her boots.
tight black leather
that rises above her knees.
she makes herself so dizzy
that she tumbles
into the table
knocking over a vase
I bought in Italy ten
years ago
when I was flush with money.
it explodes in a cloud
of ancient dust.
it mushrooms towards the ceiling.
oops, she says.
sorry, i'll buy you another
one, okay.
target?
don't worry about it,
I tell her.
I like your boots.