Читать книгу Match - Helen Guri - Страница 12

And Brian drops his full mug of coffee from a height:

Shit-whoops-damn! Hot white splinters in a stimulant tsunami.

But he doesn’t really mind –

his bending a chance to ogle Greta’s ankles,

scooting toward him like brooms.

She kneels to read the inkblots

on his jeans, while he gleans advice on their removal.

Everyone agrees it’s no big deal.

The incident bleeds into the ledger

of bloopers, office gossip,

which runs on tit-for-tat to infinity:

Last week Greta made out, as by accident,

with a pucker not her husband’s,

and Brian plucked a nylon string itch

with the publisher’s daughter.

(It was her funnel-shaped breasts.

Alcoves, we are meant to imagine,

like a lick of Manchego cheese.)

But something funny is happening to the puddle on the floor.

Like a dropped object returned to its pocket,

or a skunk turning to light at the spine as it streaks

across lawn, the dark liquid vanishes,

resets to an invisible web of tripwires throughout the room.

I keep very still, hold my place

like something nearly caught by spiders,

or like the would-be thief

of a large and opulent piece of art.