Crossing the Line

James Meyer, a real estate agent
involved in a never ending love affair
with architecture, home decorating
and the sound of his own voice,
searched for his gold plated phone
like it was a time bomb
ready to splatter his charred flesh
the length and breadth of the carriage.

“I’ll call you, what’s your number”
Melanie, a leggy legal secretary, offered.
“Thanks” he murmured,
as a muffled ringtone emanated from his briefcase.

James was so accustomed to beautiful women’s company
he paid no further attention to Melanie,
until she sent a series of photos
more provocative than a declaration of war.
Her fear of revenge porn was on par with
Ayrton Senna’s fear of speeding.

“My blood type is AB-,
the rarest blood type in the world,
but it’s not as unique as my erotic repertoire”
Melanie boasted as they added a volume
to the encyclopedia of kink.
Their exploration of unorthodox desires
lead to places stranger than a Green Haired Turtle.

Melanie’s insistence on introducing
a Green Haired Turtle to the action crossed the line.
Moving interstate was no escape
from her showers of flowers 
and sketches of lewd stretches.
Hiding them from his detective fiancee
was as difficult as selling a Hollywood mansion
to a Himalayan mystic.  

James finally placated his pleading ex lover.
His descriptive flair made a sunset picnic,
in a weed infested forest remnant,
sound more blissful than a Tahitian honeymoon cruise.
He fastened a blindfold
and guided Melanie along the track.
Nudging her off a cliff, was easier
than devouring her slice of strawberry cheesecake.
“Delicious” James remarked,
as Melanie bounced headfirst off a rocky outcrop,
before she could shriek.
He congratulated himself on her mercifully swift demise.
His guilt was akin to a sensitive soul’s remorse
after murdering a cockroach.

Imagining a Green Haired Turtle
as the third wheel in their love machine,
had James looking as distraught as
an accidental death witness.
“No, Melanie begging him to fellate
a green haired turtle
hadn’t evoked feelings of violent rage” James insisted,
as Detective Sergeant Mulder repeated questions
inspired by Melanie’s diary.
Forensics were unable to determine
if she’d fallen or been pushed.  

While James was driving to a Michelin star standard restaurant,
to celebrate Melanie’s demise,
a drunk driver crossed the median strip
and t boned his gleaming Maserati.
As he slipped in and out of consciousness,
James discovered his blood type was AB-,
the rarest in the world.

 

 

 

Photo

100 Days of Summer # 74 – No Passing

www.flickr.com/photos/elviskennedy/28401819854

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