Don’t Mind Me

If I could be anywhere other than here right now, I’d be on a dark porch swinging slowly in a cotton dress with buttons undone both too high and too low, but I’d excuse it because of the heat.  My shoes are someplace, probably in the grass, but maybe someone set them in the kitchen.  I’m drunk and I’ve got a plate of barbecue half eaten sitting on the table next to me.  If I think about it, I shoe the flies away.  The dog is waiting for me to give up and let her eat the rest.

Someone’s got Skip James playing softly in the background and your man is sitting right up next to me, one hand working its way slowly up my leg, the other on his sweaty beer.  He’s leaning in so close I can feel his stubble on my cheek and he’s telling me how I’m not like any woman he’s ever known.  And I know he’s full of shit, but I smile and encourage him, because I really don’t give a good god damn about anyone else or anything else and I need to hear some sweet things from a person who’s got no business saying them.

I want to be distracted with good music, a sweet old rascally man, and cold beer on a hot evening. 

If you see me today and I have a weird grin on my face, that’s because this is exactly what I’m thinking about.  Don’t mind me.

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