he said, standing in the doorway
with his beaver
coat on, full length.
i'm married, i told him,
and i don't swing
that way.
i continued to paint the room,
careful not to drip paint
on the floor.
you don't know until
you try it, he told me, laughing
in his lisp.
he was muscled,
chiseled,
a former marine,
with two marriages in his rear
view mirror.
one eye went one way,
and the other had a mind of its own.
two fingers were
mysteriously missing.
he was from Richmond,
and sounded
like the war had just ended.
his voice thick with
a syrupy down home
southern
fried accent, that the women
in Old Town adored.
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