The Day Trippers
She had rose-pink cushiony lips. Hot talking banana shaped hips and a smile that shamed the sun’s orange heart. He wore a classic black Fedora hat perched over slicked back pompadour hair. Waltzing down the street on happy Fred Astaire dancing feet. Jazzed up in a honey- mouthed wool silk suit. His laugh so tender it made spring blossoms quiver. She packed a teal satin negligee— sheer thigh-high nylons clip-on suspenders and midnight panties for their naked rendezvous. He bought a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon, a tub of medium-sized Vaseline and a chest of unanswered questions. In the lobby he took off his wedding ring carrying guilt and deception in a double-locked knapsack. There were bad stars above them sliding drunkenly across slanted skies. Glitter shit. She whizzed in like punk sauce. Triple wham! Butt-cheek slam. He glided towards her. Smooth operator. Never mind the bollox! They had no need for small talk. A push-up pull-down mattress and in the left drawer a copy of the Gideon bible and a motel directory. In the right drawer a mini freshen-up kit. Lemon-scented and a multi-purpose pack of toothpicks. His kidney shaped Crayola-coloured violet eyes red lined. Her big brown kitten- kohl eyes zipped with fever. They both wanted it. Sonic! Hot slaughter! Electric pleasure! Then when it was over and they said au revoir in suburban gridlock he moseyed on home. Drank a six-pack. Swing-beating to Coltrane all night long. Hiding from the day chasing hidden ants in strawberry milk. She play-acting her time away until the next mouthful of magic boom boom.
About the writer:
Saira Viola, a Pushcart Prize nominee and a nominee for Best of the Net, is a poet, novelist, and song lyricist. Viola’s work has appeared in literary journals including Literary Orphans, Push, Red Fez, Picaroon, Flatbush Review, Literary Heist, and others, on bathroom walls in Vegas, and in counter-culture magazines International Times and Gonzo Today.
Image: Photograph by William Zuback. William Zuback.com